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FICTION - SPORTS . HUMOR 
CLOTHES • ART. CARTOONS 


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opening. 

4. Talon Slide Fastener for trousers is a special 
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5. Talon is absolutely invisible when the fly is 
closed. 

6. Talon is so light that it weighs less than but- 
tons and thread used on old type. 

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ESQU Esgurre is published quarterly by the Esquire Publishing Company, Inc. Davi A. Smart, Pr: 
oc TOBER 15, 1933 and Treasurer. Editorial, Circulation, Business and Production Departments, 91 orth Michi; 
for at Post Office at Chicago, Illinois, under the Act of March 3rd, 1879. Advertising offices, 40 East 3 
States, Porto Rico, and the Phillippines, $1.50 a year in advance; in Canada, $1.00 a year extra postage. 


ich, Vice-President; Alfred Smart, Secretary Vol. I No. I 


“hicago, Illinois. Entry as second class matter applie1 Whole No. [ 
treet, New York, N. V. Subscriptions for the United 


HE last word in waterprooís 

—the Whiteway. one of the 
new U.S. Shelters, in smart 
eggshell white broadcloth. 

A coat of excellent cut, with 
pleasant, casual lines. A single- 
breasted model with fly front 
and raglan shoulders. Popular 
for its fashionable color, its 
good style, its comfort and its 
protection. Ask for Shelters 

made by the 
United States Rubber Company. 


Shelters 


“Shelters”, identi- 
fied by this label, 
inelude light- 
weights, gabar- 
dines, reversibles 
and wool flannels 
im many popular 
styles. All genu- 
inely waterproof. 


A ї 


WARNING 


Do not be misled into believing that Pre-shrunk is 


Sanforized-shrunk. There's a vast difference. Pre-shrunk 
may mean only partially shrunk—Sanforized-shrunk is 
positive and complete — guarantees permanent fit. For 


your protection, buy washables identified by the words 


Aanfjotl ed -Ahnunk 


Saget is to cloth finishing 
what Ga inding 14 to Са 


Big guns are trained on invisible targets. Instruments, rather than eyesight, 
must find the range and determine the direction that the giant projectile is to 
take. Without precision range finders, hitting the target is all a matter of 


luck. With them, it is an exact science. 


What wind allowance is in range finding, shrinkage allowance is in 
Sanforizing. Both predetermine the mechanical adjustment that is necessary 


, 
to compensate Íor nature's errors. 


Most men know that a fabric that has been Sanforized is a fabric that 
won't shrink. But few of them know why. Ask them and they will probably 
say that it is because it has been “pre-shrunk.” That isn't it, at all. Pre- 
shrinking is just the old trial and error method of attempting, by guess and 
by gosh, to anticipate the results of the first few trips to the laundry. 
Sanforizing, on the other hand, is an exact scientific process of predetermining 
just how much a fabric will shrink, throughout its lifetime, and then shrinking 


it precisely that much in the process of finishing. 


Washable garments made from cotton and linen fabrics Sanforized-shrunk 
keep their place and stay “put” in the style, in the fit and in the value as 
originally inbuilt in them by their makers. 


For Sanforizing is the controlled mechanical process that shrinks wash- 


able fabries completely, permanently and uniformly. 


Nearly every kind of washable apparel ... slacks, suits for sports and 


business wear, shirts, shorts, pajamas, work clothes . . . is now available in 


fabries Sanforized-shrunk. 


SANFORIZED PROCESS OF CONTROLLED SHRINKAGE Cluett, Peabody & Co., Ine., Patentee, 40 Worth Street, New York City 


ESQUIRE — Autumn, 1933 


FIRST Eus EN JO 


It's no fun to be fooled when you're 
craving smoke satisfaction. Lektro-§ 
lite defies the wind, the storm, and 
the acrid rasp of the sulphur match. 
Lights instantly and айосуз. 


* 


Lektrolite has made a social debut in 
the pockets and homes of smart New 
Yorkers who abhor caloused finger 
tips, blisters, and dickering with 
lighter mechanics. Really, old fash- 
ioned “lighters” are so passé! 


ж 


Gift giving is а keen delight when 
you can give the unusual. 1933's per- 
fect gift for the Birthday, favors, 
bridge prizes and what have you, is a 
Lektrolite. Incidentally, why not give 
yourself one? After all, you're your 
own best friend! 


ж 


If all the “lighters” hidden in thirty 
million desk drawers were laid end 
to end...they’d reach the heights of Ж а 
MT But seriously, гуз сап light your cigarette, 
trade in your old "lighter" toward a with first inhalation. 
1933 stream line Lektrolite. Rolls lis à No mechanism, no 1 
Royce does it, why can't we? gadgets, no tricks. TN 


; How. does it work? Forgive 
but. that’s our secret. However, 

we guarantee it absolutely for at 
d - . least a year. Catalog on request. 
prices are from 


5 9300 


YOUR OLD “LIGHTER” 


DYNAMIQUE 
LIGHTER 


magic and produce ar e 
. ing delight. Simply lift 
. and there's a soft glow 


b 


DONA 


FOR 


TRADE IN 


ESQ UIRE—Autumn, 1933 


| NO FLINTS 


NO MECHANISM 


Y MCE IN. T 


Lektrolites come in a wide range of 


models, from the simple and work- 
manlike, yet handsome, plain ones at 
as little as $5 to the tremendously 
impressive ones, executed in costly 
materials with the ultimate of crafts- 
manship, at as much as $300. Of 
course, they all light the same— 
which means, the first time, with no 
fuss, no muss, no mental hazard. 


* 


Lektrolites are modernly conceived 
in fashionable enamels and smart 
metals including silver, gold and 
platinum. If you want real swank, 
you can have your initials or club 
insignia engraved on a Lektrolite at 
slight additional cost. Remember, we 
will trade in your old “lighter” and 
if your dealer doesn't carry Lektro- 
lite, use this convenient coupon. 


NO FLAME · NO WHEELS 
NO BUTTONS NO BATTERIES 
AUTOMATIC REFILL 


LEKTROLITES ARE CARRIED 
IN THE SMARTEST SHOPS 
FROM COAST TO COAST 


If your dealer cannot supply you, address 


PLATINUM PRODUCTS COMPANY 
2 East 44th Street, New York, N. Y. Dept. 2 


A LEKTROLITE 


to 


Edited 
by 
ARNOLD GINGRICH 


As for General Esquire aims to be- 
Content come the common 

denominator of mas- 
culine interests—to be all things to all 
men. This is difficult to accomplish, all 
at a crack, and we would be foolish to 
expect to work out the formula down 
to the last little detail, in a first issue. 
One of the things that are needed, for 
the ultimate shaping of this magazine 
into what will be its final form, is a 
frank reaction from the readers. We 
won’t know how to please you in future 
issues unless and until you tell us what 
you think of the way we started out. 
The one test that has been applied to 
every feature that is in this first issue 
has been simply and solely: Is it inter- 
esting to men?” How often were we 
wrong? Come on, let’s have it—we’re 
leading with the chin. 


As for Physical In page layouts, 
Format typographic dress, 

and general make- 
up we have tried to allow this magazine 
to take on an easy natural masculine 
character to endow it, as it were, with 
a baritone voice. It would have been 
easier, to be frank, to follow the much 
fancier handling that characterizes so 
many of the general magazines, that 
are calculated to captivate the woman 
reader, but we thought you’d welcome 
a change from that, so we have con- 
sciously tried to avoid all fuss and 
feathers, in dishing up this magazine’s 
contents. Maybe in this matter, too, 
you can help us with suggestions. Is it 
easy to read? Do you like the page 
size? Enough pictures? Got any ideas? 


As for the 
Color Pages 


Once we picked up an 
issue of one of the hu- 
mor magazines contain- 
ing a full page cartoon in color. We for- 
get which one it was, or we’d be pleased 
to credit it, but anyway, turning to 
that colored cartoon was like coming 
upon the proverbial diamond in a coal 
heap. That accounts for the fact that 
so many of our color pages are devoted 
to cartoons. The use of color gives us a 
chance, also, to give the humorous 
drawings a variety of treatments that 
would not otherwise be possible. Some 
of them, we think, come very close to 
that ideal state of being classifiable, 
with equal applicability, under the 
heading of art as well as humor. 


A Word to the We have known edi- 
Contributor torial staffs in which 

it seemed to be a 
matter of pride that a bevy of assist- 
ants made such a formidable barrier 
that only a thin trickle of favored con- 
tributions ever penetrated to the inner 
editorial sanctum. We take an especial 
joy in applying reverse English to any 
such high hat policy, and herewith 
solemnly promise that, at least as long 
as Esquire remains a quarterly, every 
contribution will get the attention of 
the editor and one of the publishers. 
This will also serve to explain why we 
may take an ungodly long time in re- 
turning scripts and drawings. All con- 
tributions should be addressed to the 
Chicago office, 919 North Michigan 
Avenue. 


Aq UU 


THE QUAJRTERLY FOR MEN 


Contents for Autumn 1933 
Cover Des ngngg rey. by Edward A. Wilson 
ESQUIRE News Revuen. by Nat Karson 


Backstage with Elf 88 


Marlin off the Morro. .. Cuban Letter by Ernest Hemingway 
Back ‘Home in i inane Story by John Dos Passos 
Port of New York.......... Water Color by John Dos Passos 
неме Leisure: 8 Sede e 807087 

5 As told to S. J. Woolf by Nicholas Murray Butler 
Let Me Promise You............ Story by Morley Callaghan 
Lost Art of Ordering. Article by Charles Hanson Towne 
Bellissima: 5 5 eee eren Story by William McFee 
Treatise on Pie. ............ Humorous Essay by George Ade 
August Afternoon. Story by Erskine Caldwell 
Stonewall and Ivy................ Story by Robert Buckner 
The Check-book........ Humorous Sketch by Geoffrey Kerr 
Grandstand..................Article by Charles W. Paddock 
‘Turtle of Mme Па Cone, - 77 

tise ЖАПЕ tere felis sate Humorous Sketch by George S. Chappell 
Albert Pastor at Home Story by Dashiell Hammett 
What a Married Man Should Кпо...................... 

ee eee Humorous Essay by Montague Glass 
I Am Dying, Little Egypt.......... Article by Gilbert Seldes 
Exit at the Morgue. ............. Poem фу Joseph Auslander 
Invitation to Danger. Story by Manuel Komroff 
There's No Repealing Tastes. . Article by Frederick Van Ryn 
Publicity by Cuttlebone. ..Story by David Hoadley Munroe 
Prodigal Son of Paris. Article by Sam Ostrowsky 
In the Bois.... ........Story by Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. 
Break ’Em Gentle....................Story by Dan Muller 
The Phantom Champs........... Article by Benny Leonard 
Poor Man's Night Club.......... Article by Arnold Gingrich 
The Art in Putting... . Article by Bobby Jones 
Ж Was, I Ama Sp RH nana Semi- fiction by P- 1730 
Confessions of a Ghost............. Article by Joseph Hoyt 
Princeton Panorama........ Article by Ring W. Lardner, Jr. 
Africa for Actors. Article by M. G. Hubbard 
Alibi in a Roadhouse............. Story by Vincent Starrett 
The Lease of Lust............ Poem by Audrey Wurdemann 
Make It Funny........ Humorous Essay by Harry Hershfield 


Thought for Food Article by Arthur F. Kraetzer, M. D. 
All in a Man's Reading..... Book Notes by James T. Farrell 
Overture: Poet and Pug............ Article by Gene Tunney 


Joun Свотн, Art Director 


The use of any person's name ın any fiction, semi- fictional 
articles or humorous essays is to be regarded as a coincidence and 
not as the responsibility of Esquire. It is never done knowingly. 


COPYRIGHT 1933 BY ESQUIRE PUBLISHING CO. TITLE REG. U. S. PAT. OFF, 


Publishers: 
Davip A. SMart 
W. Н. WEINTRAUB 


A Magazine for It is our belief, in 
Men Only offering ESQUIRE to 

the American male, 
that we are only getting around at last 
to a job that should have been done a 
long time ago—that of giving the mas- 
culine reader a break. The general mag- 
azines, in the mad scramble to increase 
the woman readership that seems to be 
so highly prized by national advertis- 
ers, have bent over backward in cater- 
ing to the special interests and tastes of 
the feminine audience. This has reached 
a point, in some of the more extreme 
instances, where the male reader, in 
looking through what purports to be a 
колагы. magazine, is made to feel like 
an intruder upon gynaecic mysteries. 
Oceasionally, о. are included for 
his special attention, but somewhat 
after the manner in which scraps are 
roared to the patient dog beneath the 
table. 


As for Selling What we can’t figure, 
The Old Man for the life of us, is 

why woman-reader- 
ship should be valued so highly as to 
make a step-child out of the interests 
of male readers. This is one magazine 
that is going to try to be general, but 
is determined to stay masculine. “Ѕе]- 
ing the wife" is an important job, but 
certainly not one that has ever suffered 
for the lack of help from us. We can 
think of a selling job, however, that has 
been sadly neglected, and that is the 
one of insurance against the destruc- 
tion, all too frequent, of sales argu- 
ments that have been received by the 
little woman with a glow of approval, 
at the first skeptical grunt from the old 
man. 


As for the Fashion 
Features 


Esquire aims 
to be, among 
other things, a 
fashion guide for men. But it never 
intends to become, by any possible 
stretch of the imagination, a primer for 
fops. We have been studying men, and 
men’s clothes, for many years, and we 
have come to the conclusion that the 
average American male has too much 
inherent horse sense to be bothered 
very much by a lot of dress rules that 
nobody but a gigolo could possibly find 
either time or inclination to observe. 
On the other hand, we feel that men 
have long since ceased to believe that 
there is anything effeminate or essen- 
tially unbusinesslike about devoting a 
little care and thought and study to the 
selection of clothes. 


As for the Future The launching of 
Issues this magazine is 
an ambitious job, 
and already we have heard the wailing 
of countless Cassandras. “Why so many 
color pages—why so many features— 
how do you think you'll ever keep it 
up?" Well, a definite answer to the 
doubting Thomases is in preparation, 
in the shape of our second issue, which 
will be out December 1st. There we in- 
tend to show, not by promises but by 
erformance, that the standard estab- 
lished by the first issue of Esquire is 
meant to be a low mark rather than a 
high one, and that it will be not merely 
equaled but surpassed, in every issue 
from here out. For further details on 
this intriguing subject, and for a par- 
tial intimation of what is in store, see 
page 104. 


Pictured here, out of an artist's imagination, is a fine American 
business office. Sumptuous and inviting as it is, however, 
there is nothing unusual about it—for hundreds of American 
business men occupy offices that are equally impressive. . . . 
They do not sit in offices like these out of any personal 
vanity, or because such fine surroundings are considered 
essential to their work. They simply know that the dignity 
of the businesses they represent cannot properly be upheld 


in an ordinary, routine office setting. . . . And, for identical 


reasons, a goodly portion of America’s business leaders 
are never seen riding in other than Cadillac cars. For they 
know full well that, of all those material possessions which 
bespeak a man's place in the general life of his community, 


none is more instantly recognized than his automobile. 


ew 
- + 
| cpm у 
mE A GENERAL MOTORS VALUE 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


Мо 
Postage Stamp 
Necessary 


Postage 
Will be Paid 


by 
À Addressee 


if Mailed in the 
United States 


BUSINESS REPLY CARD 


ESQU i RE, The Magazine for Men 
919 N. Michigan Avenue 


Chicago, Illinois 


SUBSCRIPTION ORDER BLANK 


Send ESQUIRE the New Magazine for Men for 8 issues to 


Name 
Address 


Send Bill for $2.50* to 
Name 
Address 


* CANADA $5.00, FOREIGN $4.60 


BACKSTAGE WITH ESOUIRE 


4 pee department is pleased to 
inaugurate itself with the follow- 
ing charming testimonial to its use- 
fulness, which is served up without 
garnishment fresh, yea, even steam- 
ing, as it arrived from the Village 
abode of Robert Buckner: 

“T understand that you cannot close 
your forms without one of mine, the 
which is herewith enclosed, in graphic 
detail. 


Ковккт BUCKNER 


“Тп ease you might wish to furtner 
embroider your page of contributors 
with those fascinating little homey 
details which make the authors seem 
more like pals than mere lovers, I am 
appending a gripping (one p, please) 
paragraph, in its way a gem of under- 
statement, which may make the name 
К. Н. Buckner less of an awesome, god- 
like force, and more human, under- 
standable to the masses. So saying: 

“T am a Virginian, played football 
at the University, to the anguish of 
my friends and the delight of my 
enemies. Studied medicine at Edin- 
burgh, and am a minor authority on 
Scotch. Have worked, not always re- 
spectfully, as newspaper reporter, 
manager of a Belgian hotel, guide to 
Waterloo, courier, interpreter, tennis 
pro, salesman, ghost writer, publicity 
man and advertising manager of vari- 
ous publishing houses. Am the first 
American to make a living writing 
English stories for English magazines, 
including a love-problem department 
for working girls under the nom-de- 
passion of Luella Lee. My favorite 
poet is O. Nash, because of the pan- 
ache; my favorite spot, Hetch Hetchy, 
Calif., because of the timbre. I love 
birds, children, rainbows, and oh so 
many things. Ата presently engaged 
on the long-awaited Great American 
Novel, to be called, Maizie, the Patrol- 
man’s Sweetie: or, His Beat-Route 
Sugar. 

“There, I think that will do the 
trick. The accompanying photo con- 
veys something of the rugged indi- 
vidualism of Buckner the man and 
artist, and may indicate the solid 
foundation of his prose style. No 
mean pebble. Indeed, what a boul- 
der!’—London Needlework Weekly. 
‘He’ll bear watching’.—Scotland Yard 
News.” 


We were going to tell you some- 
thing about Mr. Buckner as a dis- 
covery” of ours, but now that he's 
practically famous, we are relieved of 
that necessity. Anyway, if you like 
Stonewall and Ivy, in this issue—and 
if you don’t we’re through with you, 
which would, in that case, make it 
mutual, not to say unanimous—then 
wait 'til you see Litile Augie and the 
Davis Cup, in the next issue. There’s 
a story. What panache and what 
timbre! 

0 


Esquire's Own News Revue, which 
appears on the opposite page, is the 


ESQUIR Е Autumn, 1933 


work of Nat Karson, a young artist 
whose pedigree contains that familiar 
formula, *by New York out of Chi- 
cago." If you know your Chicago art 
world, you know that first success, as 
it comes to Chicago artists, is usually 
computed as the accumulation of 
sufficient funds for the purchase of a 
ticket to New York. Lasting success 
means being able to return to the old 
town on the Lakefront without hav- 
ing to resort to the hitchhike route. 
Well, Nat Karson's been a big success 
—he maintains studios in both places, 
and rides the train, with a ticket, 
back and forth between them. 

Here is a key, not that you need it, 
to the News Revue: Upper left, with 
saluting hand between the flaming 
uprights of the word July, General 
Italo Balbo, with World's Fair crowds 
before him and World's Fair buildings 
to his left. At his right, George Bern- 
ard Shaw, celebrating his 77th birth- 
day. Lower left, Wiley Post, with 
part of the crowds that greeted him— 
perhaps the part that still remember 
fin such is the transient fame of fly- 
ers. Just above, Ramsey MacDonald, 
with the remains of the Disarmament 
— or was it the Arms?—Conference. 
Next below, Mussolini in radio salute 
to Balbo. Next above, Hitler and the 
Bayreuth Festival under the Nazis. 
Center, F. D. himself and the Blue 
Eagle. Upper right, the Recovery 
that started—and that’s still the right 
word—in August. Right center, Irv- 
ing Berlin writes a new show. Next 
below, the polo without which Sep- 
tember could hardly be considered 
official. Next below, Primo Carnera 
upon whom, how suddenly, “assur- 
ance sits as a silk hat on a Bradford 
millionaire." Next below, Farley lines 
up another couple of Southern states 
for Repeal. Lower right, New York- 
ers duly and dutifully begin what the 
majority of the critics will call, for the 
fifth or maybe tenth successive year, 
the worst theatrical season in history. 

We forgot something? The fellow at 
top center? Why, that's Esquire— 
about a tenth as large as life and twice 
as natural. 


Nat Karson 
. 


John Groth, whose work is featured 
on so manx of our pages, is the Art 
Director of Esquire. A restless experi- 
menter with media, he has brought to 
the captioned humorous drawing a 
variety of treatment that it has never 
been accorded before, at least in gen- 
eral magazines. One of the most in- 
teresting and least familiar of these 
treatments is the monotype, examples 
of which are to be found on pages 52 
and 106. The evolution of a monotype 
isas follows. First the drawing is made 
in plain line. Then a glass plate is laid 
overit. Following the outlines of the 
pen drawing, which show clearly 
through the glass plate, the drawing 


is done over again, in oils, direct on 
the glass. A plain piece of drawing 
paper is then laid on the glass, and 
its back is run over by a hand roller. 
'The resultant impression, made upon 
the drawing paper by contact with 
the wet surface of the oil paints on the 
glass, is а monotype, and constitutes 
the finished drawing that is repro- 
duced in our pages. 


Jonn GnorH 


Mr. Groth is a young Chicagoan 
whose work has only recently begun 
to attract national attention. One- 
man shows have been given him, this 
month, in Milwaukee and in Wash- 
ington, the latter in the National 
Gallery. For one so young (he is still 
under twenty-five) his technical skill 
and mastery of media is remarkable. 
We predict that he will go far on the 
long road that lies ahead of him. 


Ernest Hemingway is in Spain. 
His newest book, a volume of short 
stories, is called Winner Take Nothing. 
As this is written before the book's ap- 
pearance, we cannot list all the stories, 
but we can tell you that it contains at 
least one story, Sea-Change, that 
stacks up with the finest he has ever 
done. 

For those of you who have waist- 
lines, we wish that Mr. Hemingway 
had included, in his account of marlin 
fishing, the fact that he lost 26 pounds 
during the three months he spent fish- 
ing the Cuban Coast. 


Manuel Komroff's newest book is 
I, the Tiger. We can heartily recom- 
mend it. Mr. Komroff is the author 
of The Grace of Lambs, J uggler's Kiss, 
Coronet, and A New York Tempest. 
Helives in New York but is in Holly- 
wood at present. From there he 
writes: “out here they are innocent in 
everything but sex." 


John Dos Passos is in Spain with 
his good friend Ernest Hemingway, 
having gone there after a summer 
spent at Antibes. Before returning to 
America, he will do the illustrations 
for Mr. Hemingway's Spanish Letter, 
scheduled for the next issue. While 
everyone has heard of Dos Passos 
as & writer, many may be surprised 
to see the evidence, on page 11, that 
he is also an artist. As far as we 
know, this is the first time that one 
of his drawings has been reproduced 
in color in a periodical, although his 
water colors have appeared in two 
books, one his own volume of travel 
sketches, Orient Express, the other 
Panama, by Blaise Cendrars, a book 
of poems (and pretty advanced stuff, 
too, we warn you) of which he was the 
translator as well as the illustrator. 
Mr. Dos Passos came to fame in 1921 
with the publication of T'hree Soldiers 
(now available in à Modern Library 


edition), although his first novel, One 
Man's Initiation, appeared in 1920. 
His best known books are Rosinante 
to the Road Again (1922), a volume of 
travel sketches and essays on Spain, 
A Pushcart at the Curb, poems (1922), 
Streets of Night, (1923), Manhattan 
Transfer (1925), The 42nd Parallel 
(1930), and 1919 (1932). The last four 
named are novels. 


He is an author who ought to be 
read by everyone and could get along 
without being read by his admirers— 
we mean, that he has a tremendous 
following among the long haired liter- 
ary audience and deserves to have it 
among all readers of books. No one, 
with the possible exception of James 
Joyce (and you could get us into an 
argument on this point very easily) 
has had such a pronounced influence 
on the contemporary novel. The 
characteristic Dos Passos novel, ka- 
leidoscopie in treatment and poly- 
phonie in form, took shape with Man- 
hattan Transfer. The 42nd Parallel and 
1919, while complete books in them- 
selves, are connected and carry the 
same cast of characters. A novel now 
in preparation carries on from the 
point where 1919 left off. The incident 
treated in Mr. Dos Passos' story in 
this issue forms a part of the material 
for this new novel. Until someone 
can show us conclusively that we're 
wrong, we lay our money, in the 
Great American Novel Sweepstakes, 
on the ultimate great book of which 
42nd Parallel and 1919 form the be- 
ginning and middle. 


JosEPH AUSLANDER 


Joseph Auslander is doing a man- 
size job, with his new series of poems 
depicting New York life in its sterner 
aspects. We are proud and pleased to 
be able to present this series in the 
pages of Esquire. The second poem of 
the series, which will appear in our 
next issue, is Night Court. Mr. Aus- 
lander, who is equally well known as 
poet, anthologist and lecturer, lives 
in Manhattan. 


William McFee is the author of 
The Harbormaster, Casuals of the Sea, 
etc. His newest book is No Castle in 
Spain. 

. 


George Ade is, next to Aesop, the 
best known* writer of fables. His, 
written in slang, brought him fame 
these many years gone. 


Montague Glassis the well-known 
author of Potash and Perlmutter. 


Gibert Seldes is the editor of the 
recent news-reel movie, T'his is Amer- 
ica. His book, T'he Seven Lively Arts, 
was one of the first to give the movies 


*unless you want to get precious and 


rong ina fellow name Fontaine. 
Continued on page 116 


7 


MARLIN OFF THE MORRO 


A Cuban letter 


by ERNEST HEMINGWAY 


HE rooms on the northeast corner of the 

Ambos Mundos hotel in Havana look 
out, to the north, over the old cathedral, the 
entrance to the harbor, and the sea, and to 
the east to Casablanea peninsula, the roofs 
of all houses in between and the width of the 
harbor. If you sleep with your feet toward 
the east, this may be against the tenets of 
certain religions, the sun, coming up over the 
Casablanea side and into your open window, 
will shine on your face and wake you no 
matter where you were the night before. If 
you do not choose to get up you can turn 
around the other way in the bed or roll over. 
That will not help for long because the sun 
will be getting stronger and the only thing 
to do is close the shutter. 

Getting up to close the shutter you look 
across the harbor to the flag on the fortress 
and see it is straightened out toward you. 
You look out the north window past the 
Morro and see that the smooth morning 
sheen is rippling over and you know the 
trade wind is coming up early. You take a 
shower, pull on an old pair of khaki pants 
and a shirt, take the pair of moccasins that 
are dry, put the other pair in the window so 
they will be dry next night, walk to the ele- 
vator, ride down, get a paper at the desk, 
walk across the corner to the cafe and have 
breakfast. 

There are two opposing schools about 
breakfast. If you knew you were not going 
to be into fish for two or three hours, a good 
big breakfast would be the thing. Maybe it 
is a good thing anyway but I do not want to 
trust it, so drink a glass of vichy, a glass of 
cold milk and eat a piece of Cuban bread, 
read the papers and walk down to the boat. 
I have hooked them on a full stomach in that 
sun and I do not want to hook any more of 
them that way. 


We have an ice-box that runs across the 
stern of the boat with bait iced down on one 
side and beer and fruit iced on the other. 
The best bait for big marlin is fresh cero 
mackerel or kingfish of a pound to three 
pounds weight. The best beer is Hatuey, the 
best fruits, in season, are Filipino mangoes, 
iced pineapple, and alligator pears. Ordina- 
rily we eat the alligator pears for lunch with 
a sandwich, fixing them with pepper and 
salt and a freshly squeezed lime. When we 
run into the beach to anchor, swim and cook 
a hot lunch on days when fish are not run- 
ning you can make a French dressing for the 
pears, adding a little mustard. You ean get 
enough fine, big avocados to feed five people 
for fifteen cents. 

The boat is the Anita, thirty-four feet 
long, very able in a sea, with plenty of speed 
for these fish, owned and skippered by Capt. 
Joe Russell of Key West who brought the 
first load of liquor that ever came into that 
place from Cuba and who knows more about 
swordfish than most Keywesters do about 
grunts. The other man on board is the best 
marlin and swordfisherman around Cuba, 
Carlos Gutierrez, of Zapata, 31, Havana, 54 
years old, who goes Captain on a fishing 
smack in the winter and fishes marlin com- 
mercially in the summer. I met him six 
years ago in Dry Tortugas and first heard 
about the big marlin that run off Cuba from 
him. He ean, literally, gaff a dolphin 
through the head back-handed and he has 
studied the habits of the marlin since he 
first went fishing for them as a boy of twelve 
with his father. 

As the boat leaves the San Francisco 
wharf, tarpon are rolling in the slip. Going 
out of the harbor you see more of them roll- 
ing near the live fish ears that are buoyed 
alongside the line of anchored fishing smacks. 


Off the Morro in the entrance to the harbor 
there is a good coral bottom with about 
twenty fathoms of water and you pass many 
small boats bottom fishing for mutton fish 
and red snappers and jigging for mackerel 
and occasional kingfish. Outside the breeze 
freshens and as far as you can see the small 
boats of the marlin fishermen are scattered. 
They are fishing with four to six heavy hand- 
lines in from forty to seventy fathoms drift- 
ing for the fish that are travelling deep. We 
troll for the ones that are on the surface 
feeding, or travelling, or cruising fifteen or 
twenty fathoms down. They see the two big 
teasers or the baits and come up with a 
smash, usually going head and shoulders out 
of water on the strike. 

Marlin travel from east to west against 
the current of the gulf stream. No one has 
ever seen them working in the other direc- 
tion, although the current of the gulf stream 
is not so stable; sometimes, just before the 
new moon, being quite slack and at others 
running strongly to the westward. But the 
prevailing wind is the northeast trade and 
when this blows the marlin come to the top 
and cruise with the wind, the seythe tail, a 
light, steely, lavender, cutting the swells as 
it projects and goes under; the big fish, yel- 
low looking in the water, swimming two or 
three feet under the surface, the huge pec- 
toral fins tucked close to the flanks, the 
dorsal fin down, the fish looking a round, 
fast-moving log in the water except for the 
erect curve of that slicing tail. 

The heavier the current runs to the east- 
ward the more marlin there are; travelling 
along the edge of the dark, swirling current 
from a quarter of a mile to four miles off 
shore; all going in the same direction like 
ears along a highway. We have been fighting 
a fish, on days when they were running well, 

Continued on page 39 


The Anita in Cabanas harbor, looking out to sea. A mile off shore from here, 
extending four miles to eastward, is one of the best marlin grounds on the coast 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


Black marlin, 12 feet, 8 

inches, 468 pounds, the 

biggest catch of this sea- 

son, brought to gaff by 
E. H. in 65 minutes 


Pauline Hem- 
ingway fighting 
a white marlin 


Giving the left 

arm а rest in 

the second 
hour 


Big black mar- 
lin on board 
the Anita 


J. Н. N. Hem- 

ingway with 

his firstmarlin, 
47 pounds 


A glass of man- 
zanilla for one 
the sharks got 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 9 


BACK HOME IN 1919 


e . . "we could stand the war. but 
the peace has done us in^. 
short story written and illustrated 


by JOHN DOS PASSOS 


HARLEY ANDERSON lay in his bunk in a 
glary red buzz: Oh T'itine . . . damn that 
tunelast night. His head was full of voices 
and ehampagny fizzle and Mrs. Johnson's 
long hazel eyes and her singysweet tones: 
the French are so much wiser. He lay flat 
with his eyes hot; the tongue in his mouth 
was thick warm sour felt. 

He dragged his feet out from under the 
blanket and hung them over the edge of the 
bunk, big white feet with pink knobs on the 
toes. Helet them drop to the red carpet and 
hauled himself shakily to the porthole. He 
stuck his head out. Instead of the dock, fog, 
little greygreen waves slapping against the 
boat'ssealing side. At anchor. A gull sereamed 
above him hidden in the fog. He shivered 
and pulled his head in. Christ what a head. 

At the basin he splashed cold water on his 
face and neck. Home, bygod, safe and sound, 
his voice croaked. Where the cold water hit 
him his light skin flushed pink. In the pink, 
it croaked again. Don’t be a damn fool, it 
answered hoarsely. He began to feel cold 
and sick and got back into his bunk and 
pulled the still warm covers up to his chin. 
The morning after, that's when you want a 
woman, it croaked. Can that stuff, no more 
French girls now. Home. (Mrs. Johnson 
now, with her long wise hazel eyes.) Damn 
that tune. He jumped up. His head and 
stomach throbbed in time now. He pulled 
out the chamberpot and leaned over it. He 
gagged; a little green bile came. No І don't 
want to puke. He got into his underclothes 
and the whipeord pants of his uniform and 
lathered his face to shave. Shaving made 
him feel blue. What I need's a... He rang 
for the steward. Bonjour m'ssieur". “Say 
Billy, let's have a double cognac, tootsuite.”” 
He buttoned his shirt carefully and put on 
his tunic. He looked at himself in the glass. 
His eyes had red rims and his face looked 
green under the sunburn. Suddenly he be- 
gan to feel sick again; a sour gagging was 
welling up from his stomach to his throat. 
God these French boats stink. A knock, the 
steward's frog smile and “Voila m'ssieur", 
the white plate slopped with a thin amber 
spilling out of the glass; *When do we dock?" 
The steward shrugged and growled “Та 
brume.” 

Green spots were still dancing in front of 
his eyes as he went up the linoleum smelling 
companionway. Up on deck the wet fog 
squeezed wet against his face. He stuck his 
hands in his pockets and leaned into it. No- 
body on deck, a few trunks, steamerchairs 
folded and stacked. To windward every- 
thing was wet. Drops trickled down the 
brass rimmed windows of the smoking room. 
In every direction nothing but fog. 

Next time around he met Joe Askew. Joe 
looked fine. His little moustache spread neat 
under his thin nose. His eyes were clear. 

Isn't this the damnedest note, Charley? 
Fog." 

“Rotten.” 

“Got a head?” 


10 


“You look topnotch, Joe.“ 

“Sure, why not? I got the fidgets, been up 
since six o’clock. Damn this fog, we may be 
here all day.” 

“Tt’s fog all right." 

They took a couple of turns around the 
deck. 

“Notice how the damn boat stinks, Joe?“ 

“It’s being at anchor, and the fog, stimu- 
lates your smellers I guess. How about 
breakfast?“ Charley didn't say anything for 
a moment then he took a deep breath and 
said, “АП right let's try it.” 

The dining saloon smelt of onions and 
brass polish. The Johnsons were already at 
the table. Mrs. Johnson looked pale and 
eool. She had on a little grey hat Charley 
hadn't seen before, all ready to land. Paul 
gave Charley a sickly kind of a smile when he 
said hello. Charley noticed how Paul's hand 
was shaking when he lifted the glass of orange 
juiee. His lips were white. 

"Anybody seen Ollie Taylor?" asked 
Charley. 

“The major's feelin’ pretty bad I bet," 
said Paul giggling. 

* And how are you Charley?" Mrs. John- 
son intoned sweetly. 

“Oh I’m... I'm in the pink.” 

“Liar,” said Joe Askew. 

“Oh I can’t imagine," Mrs. Johnson was 
saying, what kept you boys up so late last 
night." 

**We did some singing," said Joe Askew. 

“Somebody I know” said Mrs. Johnson, 
“went to bed in his clothes.“ Her eye caught 
Charley’s. 

Paul was changing the subject: Well 
we're back in God's country.” 

“ОҺ I ean't imagine" eried Mrs. Johnson, 
“what America’s going to be like.“ 

Charley was bolting his wuffs avec du 
bakin and the coffee that tasted of bilge. 

“What I'm looking forward to," Joe As- 
kew was saying, “1з a real American break- 
fast." 

Grapefruit,“ said Mrs. Johnson. 

“Cornflakes and eream," said Joe. 

Hot corn muffins," said Mrs. Johnson. 

“Fresh eggs and real Virginia ham,” said 
Joe. 

“Wheateakes and country sausage," said 
Mrs. Johnson. 

“Serapple,” said Joe. 

“Good coffee with real cream,” said Mrs. 
Johnson laughingly. 

“You win,” said Paul with a sickly grin as 
he left the table. 

Charley took a last gulp of the coffee that 
tasted like bilge. Then he said he thought 
he’d go on deck to see if the immigration 
officers had come. Why what's the matter 
Charley?” He could hear Joe and Mrs. John- 
son laughing together as he ran up the com- 
panionway.... 

Once on deck he decided he wasn’t going 
to be sick. The fog had lifted a little. Astern 
of the Niagara he could see the shadows of 
other steamers at anchor, and beyond a 


rounded shadow that might be land. Gulls 
wheeled and screamed overhead. Somewhere 
across the water a foghorn groaned at inter- 
vals. Charley walked round and round the 
deck. When he passed the door to the smok- 
ing room he could hear somebody vomiting 
in the men’s toilet. Through the open port- 
hole he caught a glimpse of Paul’s white face. 
He walked up forward again and leaned into 
the wet fog. No he wasn’t going to be sick. 

Joe Askew came up behind him smoking 
a cigar and took him by the arm: Better 
walk Charley," he said. Isn't this a hell of 
а note? Look’s like little old New York had 
gotten torpedoed during thelate unpleasant- 
ness... І can’t see a damn thing, ean you?" 

“T thought I saw some land a minute ago, 
but it's gone now." 

*Musta been Atlantie Highlands; we're 
anchored off the Hook... Goddam it I want 
to get ashore.” 

“Your wife’ll be there, won't she Joe?" 

“She ought to be . . . Know anybody in 
New York, Charley?" 

Charley shook his head. “І got a long ways 
to go yet before I go home... I don’t know 
what I'll do when I get there." 

“Damn it we may be here all day," said 
Joe Askew. 

“Joe,” said Charley, suppose we have a 
drink . . . one final drink.” 

“They’ve closed up the damn bar." 

They’d packed their bags the night before. 
There was nothing to do. They spent the 
morning playing rummy in the smoking 
room. Nobody could keep his mind on the 
game. Paul kept dropping his cards. No- 
body ever knew who'd taken the last trick. 
Charley was trying to keep his eyes off Mrs. 
Johnson's eyes, off the little curve of her 
neck where it ducked under the grey fur 
trimming of her dress. “І can't imagine," ske 
said again, What you boys found to talk 
about so late last night . . . I thought we'd 
talked about everything under heaven be- 
fore I went to bed." 

“Oh we found topies, but mostly it eame 
out in the form of singing," said Joe Askew. 

“T know I always miss things when I go to 
bed." Charley noticed Paul beside him star- 
ing at her with pale loving eyes. But,“ she 
was saying with her teasing smile, it's just 
too boring to sit up.” 

Paul blushed, he looked as if he were going 
to егу; Charley wondered if Paul had thought 
of the same thing he'd thought of. ‘‘Well, 
let's see; whose deal was it?" said Joe Askew 
briskly. 

Around noon Major Taylor eame into the 
smoking room. Good morning everybody. 
I know nobody feels worse than I do. Com- 
mandant says we may not dock till tomor- 
row morning.” 

They put up the eards without finishing 
the hand. That's nice," said Joe Askew. 

“Tt’s just as well," said Major Taylor, 
“Tm a wreck. The last of the harddrinking 
hardriding Taylors is a wreck. We could 
stand the war, but the peace has done us in." 

Continued on page 107 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


PAINTED IN WATERCOLOR FOR ESQUIRE 


PORT OF NEW YORK by JOHN DOS PASSOS 


11 


*“Whip-poor-will!”’ 


ESQUIR E—Autumn, 1933 


12 


THE NEW LEISURE 


What it means in terms of the 
opportunity to learn the art 
of living. as told to S. J. Woolf 


by NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER 


NE of the most obvious objects of life is 

to learn how to live. That means two 
things: first, that you must make life physi- 
eally possible by such compensated effort as 
will provide the necessities of physical exist- 
ence and comfort for yourself and those 
dependent on you; and second, that you 
will seek to find and to make opportunity 
to use your human eapabilities and abilities 
in larger and non-material ways and fash- 
ions, both for your own satisfaction and for 
the good of your kind. 

We call the first work and we call the 
second leisure. There is a great difference 
between leisure and unemployment. Un- 
employment means an absence of the first— 
work—and it destroys the basis for real 
leisure. It merely fills up the hours of the 
day with anxiety and worry, and so long as 
work is not available leisure is impossible, 
because leisure is the outgrowth and accom- 
paniment of successful work. 

Tf you are an animal you don’t have any 
leisure except, I suppose, the time spent in 
sleep, if that be leisure; but a human being 
has all these capabilities and possibilities 
and becomes increasingly human as he finds 
opportunity for their manifestation and en- 
joyment. 

An immense mass of the population of 
the modern world has known very little of 
leisure. Their work, the first of these two 
aspects of life, has occupied most or all of 
their hours and what little period might 
have been given to leisure has really been 
spent in recovering from fatigue. Now we 
have come to a point where the interest of 
the intelligent mass of mankind is focused 
on so raising the standard of living that, 
first, work will be properly remunerated and 
systematically provided, and second, that 
leisure will be offered, together with indica- 
tion and guidance as to how it may best be 
used. 

One of the physical characteristics of 
leisure is that it involves the rest and relaxa- 
tion of the nervous system. The strain on 
the nerves of a brain worker of any kind, 
for example, is very serious and very severe 
during the hours of occupation, whether 
they are long or short. True relaxation, 
therefore. should involve relaxation that 


may take the form of physical exercise or 
games. It may take the form of light oc- 
eupation of some non-serious kind—work- 


ES @UIRE—Autumn, 1933 


ing in a garden with flowers, trees or vege- 
tables. It may involve the reading of books, 
hearing good music, or visiting great collec- 
tions of art and expanding the field of in- 
terest and activity. 

Take the City of New York, for example, 
where one of the most significant sights is to 
see the crowds of people from all over the 
Metropolitan City and its vicinity who pour 
into the Metropolitan Museum of Art and 
the American Museum of Natural History 
on Sundays and holidays. They are occupy- 
ing leisure in increasing their interest in 
either nature or art, instructing their chil- 
dren, or following up some new discovery of 
which they have read in the newspapers. 

What is exceedingly important is that the 
hand worker should not only be offered 
leisure, but should be guided in its interest- 
ing and helpful use. That means outdoor 
interests, sports and oceupations of various 
kinds, as well as those which I have already 
mentioned as making direet appeal to the 
brain worker. 

We need inereased emphasis on the in- 
tellectual guidance of our adult population. 
As I have pointed out a good many times, 
the average human being seems to reach the 
climax of his intellectual activity at about 
23 or 24 years of age and very few individ- 
uals continue to grow intellectually after 
the age of 40. As I have said repeatedly, if 
one crosses the age of 40 with a rising curve 
of intellectual activity, he will probably go 
on growing for the remainder of his life. But 
the intellectual curve for the greater pro- 
portion of the population reaches the ground 
long before that age. 

This indicates the field to be occupied by 
what we eall adult education. Adult educa- 
tion does not mean going to school or even 
following any very rigorous program of in- 


struction. What it means is guidance from 
competent sources as to one’s systematic 
reading, as to one’s standards of judgment 
in art, science and literature, and as to one’s 
occupations in either work or leisure. The 
exercise of this guidance must be carefully 
considered. It would be foolish to offer a 
list of books to a man who had been toiling 
for six or seven hours in a mine. His natural 
desire would be for the open air and it would 
be there that he would naturally wish to 
seek his relaxation. 

One great trouble heretofore has been 


the comparatively few hours that physical 
workers have had for relaxation. For the 
most part they have cared little for anything 
except rest during those hours. In New 
York I have noticed that among the toilers 
the evening papers are those that are read. 
The reason is simple. Those men and women 
have just time for their coffee or milk in the 
morning before they rush off to work. It is 
only in the evening that they have time to 
read. This is true in all the great industrial 
centers. Yet it is the morning papers which 
give the complete details of the news. 
Therefore the man or woman who has not 
enough leisure to see the morning papers 
never gets а full understanding of many 
important events. 

I was speaking recently to Mr. Anderson, 
direetor of the New York Publie Library, 
and he told me that there had been an 
enormous demand for books upon brewing. 
A change of poliey upon the part of the 
government which naturally had been re- 
ported in the papers had evoked a new 
interest in many people. 

It goes without saying that different 
people are interested in different subjeets 
and it is most absorbing to go into a publie 
reading room and see what different people 
read. One will be looking up something in 
an encyclopedia, another reading German 
poetry, another a book on spiritualism and 
still another a best seller. Each is occupy- 
ing his leisure in the way he desires. 

Some people find relaxation in the cinema. 
With the new leisure the cinemas will be 
enormously patronized, but if people go 
there to see the sort of thing which is so 
often shown now, they had better stay away 
and work. The cinema abroad is far ahead 
of ours, in respect to the material produced. 
I regard most of the Hollywood produe- 
tions as appalling and their effect on Ameri- 
can youth as debasing in the extreme. 

More leisure for the mass of the popula- 
tion places a tremendous responsibility upon 
these cinema producers and they could be- 
come important agents for good. Take for 
instance the opportunity that is theirs for 
creating an interest in history. Where one 
person will read about Disraeli, Hamilton 
or Voltaire thousands will go to see George 
Arliss portraying them. But instead of pro- 
ducing pictures of this kind our cinema 
magnates are content to turn out cheap, 


Continued on page 98 
13 


14 


“Repent, ye sinners” 


DRYPOINT BY JOHN GROTH 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


LET ME PROMISE 


YOU 


Of lonely watching in the rain, 
of longing for a time gone by. 
of yearning for more to give 


by MORLEY CALLAGHAN 


AME kept on returning to the window. 
Standing with her short straight nose 
pressed against the window pane, she watched 
the rain falling and the sidewalk shining 
under the street light. In her black crepe 
dress with the big white nunlike collar and 
with her black hair drawn back tight from 
her narrow nervous face she looked almost 
boldly handsome. 

Earlier in the evening it had started to 
snow, then it had begun to drizzle and now 
the rain was like a sharp sleet. As Alice stood 
at the window, she began to wish that the 
ground had been covered with an unbroken 
layer of fine thin snow, a white sheet that 
would remain undisturbed till Georgie came 
with his single line of footprints marking a 
path up to her door. Though her eyes re- 
mained wide open, she began to dream of a 
bitterly cold dry evening, of Georgie with a 
red searf and a tingling face bursting in on 
her, grinning, his arms wide open. But the 
wind drove the sleet steadily against the 
pane. Sighing, she thought, “Не won’t 
come in such weather. But he would if it 
weren’t for the weather. I can’t really 
expect him tonight.” So she walked away 
from the window and sat down. 

Then her heart began to thump so slowly 
and heavily inside her she could hardly 
move, for someone was knocking. Opening 
the door in a rush, she cried, “Georgie, you 
dear boy, I’m so glad you came,” and she 
put out her hands to help him off with his 
dripping coat. In the light belted coat he 
looked very tall and he had a smooth round 
face that would never look old. The wind 
and the rain had left his face wet and glow- 
ing, but he was pouting because he was un- 
comfortable in his damp clothes. As he 
pushed his fair wavy hair back from his 
eyes, he said, This isn’t exactly a night for 
visiting." He sat down, still a bit embar- 
rassed by her enthusiasm, and he looked 
around the room as if he thought now that 
he had made a mistake in coming and didn’t 
expect to be very comfortable. It's rotten 
out on a night like this when it can’t make 
up its mind to snow or rain. Maybe you 
didn’t think I’d come.” 

“T wanted you to come, and because I 
wanted it, I thought you would, I guess,” 
she said candidly. So many days seemed to 
have passed since she had been alone with 
Georgie that now she wanted to take his 
head in her hands and kiss him. But she 
felt too shy. A year ago, she knew, he would 
have been waiting anxiously for her to kiss 
him. 
“Alice,” he said suddenly. 

What's bothering you, Georgie, frown- 
ing like that?” 

“What did you want me for? You said 
you wanted to speak about something in 
particular.” 

“Such curiosity. You’ll just sit there un- 
able to rest till you find out, I suppose," she 
said. She knew he was ill at ease, but she 
wanted to pretend to herself that he was 
just impatient and curious. So her pale 


ESQ UIRE—Autumn, 1933 


handsome face was animated by a warm 
secret delight as she went across the room to 
a chest of drawers and took out a long eard- 
board box which she handed to him after 
making alow girlish curtsy. ‘‘I hope you like 
it... darling," she said shyly. 

What's this? What's the idea?“ Georgie 
said as he undid the box and pulled out the 
tissue paper. When he saw that she was giv- 
ing something to him, he became embar- 
rassed and almost too upset to speak, and 
then, because he did not want to hurt her, 
he tried to be full of enthusiasm, “Гога, look 
atit," he said. White, turtle necked sweater. 
If I wore that I'd look like a movie actor in 
his spare time. Should I put it on now, Al?” 
Grinning at her, he took off his coat and 
pulled the white sweater over his shirt. Do 
I look good? How about a mirror, Al?“ 

Alice heldthe mirror in front of him, 
watching him with the same gentle expres- 
sion of devotion all the time, and feeling 
within her a contentment she had hardly 
dared to hope for. The high necked sweater 
made his fair head look like a faun’s head. 

“It’s pretty swell, Al,“ he said, but now 
that he couldn’t go on pleasing her with 
enthusiasm, his embarrassment increased. 
“You shouldn't be giving me this, AL," he 
said. “І didn’t figure on anything like this 
when you phoned me and said you wanted 
to see me." 

“Today is your birthday, isn't it, Georgie?” 

"Imagine you remembering that. You 
shouldn't be bothering with birthday pres- 
ents for me now." 

“T thought you'd like the sweater," she 
said. “I saw it this afternoon. I knew it 
would look good on you." 

“But why give me anything, Al?“ he said, 
feeling his awkwardness increasing. 

“Supposing I want to?” 

“You shouldn't waste your money on me." 

“Supposing I have something else, too," 
she said teasing him. 

What's the idea, Al?” 

“T saw something else, something you 


used to want an awfullot. Do you remem- 
ber? Try and guess." 

“T can’t imagine," he said, but his face got 
red and he smiled awkwardly at being forced 
in this way to remember a time which only 
made him feel uncomfortable now when he 
recalled it. 

Laughing huskily and showing her small 
even teeth because she was glad to be able 
to hold out something before him and tease 
him as she used to do, she moved lazily over 
to the chest of drawers, and this time took 
out a small leather wateh ease. “Неге you 
are," she said. 

“What is it, let me see," he said, for he 
couldn't help being curious. He got up. But 
when he held the watch in his hand, he had 
to shake his head to conceal his satisfaction. 
"It's funny the way you knew I always 
wanted something like that, Al," he said. 
АП his life he had wanted an expensive wrist 
watch like this one, but had never expected. 
to be able to buy it, and he was so pleased 
now that he smiled serenely. 

But after а moment he put the watch 
irresolutely on the table, and was too em- 
barrassed to speak. Walking the length of 
theroom he began to whistle. As she watehed 
him halt by the window, Aliee knew he was 
uneasy. “‘You’re a great girl, Al,“ he was say- 
ing. “I don’t know anybody like уоп.” After 
pausing, he added, Is it never going to stop 
raining? I've got to be on my way." 

"You're not going now, Georgie, are you?" 

Ves, I promised to see a fellow. He'll be 
waiting." 

“Georgie, don't go. Please don't," she 
said, and she clenched the wet sleeve of the 
coat he had lifted from the chair. He was 
really ashamed to be going, especially if he 
picked up the watch from the table, but he 
felt if he stayed it would be like beginning 
everything all over again. He didn't know 
what to do about the watch, so he put out 
his hand hesitantly, knowing she was watch- 
ing him and picked it up. 

“So you're just coming here like this and 
then going?” she said. 

“Гуе got to." 

“Have you got another girl?“ 

"No. Idon't want another girl." 

“Yet you won'tstay alittle while with me?“ 

„That's over, Al. I don’t know what's the 
matter with you. You phoned and wanted 
me to drop in for a moment.” 

“Tt wasn’t hard to see that you liked look- 
ing at the wateh more than at me," she said 
moodily. 

“Неге, if you don't want me to take the 
watch, all right," he said, and with relief, he 
put it baek on the table, and smiled. 

For а moment she stared at the case. al- 
most blinded by her disappointment, and 
hating his smile of relief, and then she cried 
out, *You're just trying to humiliate me. 
Take it out of my sight." She swung the 
back of her hand across the table, knocked 
the case to the floor and the watch against 
the wall where the glass broke, and trying 
not to ery, she clenched her fists and glared 

Continued on page 86 


15 


THE LOST ART OF ORDERING 


N the dear, dead days, when we had 

Sherry’s and Delmonico’s in all their gold- 
en glory; when the old Cafe Martin with 
its glittering rooms stood near Madison 
Square in New York, and the jeunesse dorée 
of the town helter-skeltered here 
and there with lovely ladies on 
their arms, and whisked them in- 
to hansom cabs— those ‘‘two- 
wheeled heavens,” as a mid-Vic- 
torian poet called them—our city 
might have been a beautiful hell, 
but it was also, to most of us in 
our carefree youth, a glowing sub- 
urb of Paradise. 

For we had won the foolish little 
Spanish-American war, and a period of 
peace and plenty settled down, and there 
were no murmurs of a world crisis, and Pro- 
hibition, that hydrant-headed monster, as a 
wit has called it, had not reared its horrid 
countenance. There were dreams in our 
hearts, and Mammon had not yet got hold 


V 
4 
of us. We asked only for the simple pleasures 
which are the natural possession of youth. 
Life ran on leisurely wheels, we hadn’t a 
care in the world, for there were no income 
taxes to pay, there were no passports to be 
obtained, and we could sit at tables in 
grills and rathskellers, like freemen, and 
order from a wine-list whatever it 
pleased us to have served. We 
knew our vintages, we knew 
where the best food was obtain- 
able, and our ladies had not then 
become obsessed with the painful 
business of dieting. They knew 
good food, too, and relished it. 
Ah! how the happy hours sang \ 
for us; how the city shone like a n 
queen decked with diamonds and 

pearls, and how our light laughter rang 
through the corridors of our eity, as we sped 
on our delirious way. 

Down at the old Cafe Lafayette, on a 
Sunday evening, we would troop in strong 
battalions, for we knew how the French 
chefs were able to give us all those little 
superfluities of life which, as Stevenson 
says, make it more agreeable. Our friends 
would be there—the rooms would be crowded 
with them—and we would choose our table 
in the room where dominoes was played, and 
Henri would come and take our order for an 
aperitif just one, mind you, for we could not 
desecrate the meal to follow, and the wines 


16 


“Tf the tables at Rector’s could 
speak °??— conceivably they might 
say the very things said here 


by CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 


that would naturally be served, with a pre- 
liminary gulping down of several Martini 
cocktails. 

No table d'hóte for us, in our youthful 
sophistication! Henri knew us, and rejoiced 
in our diserimination. And so, as 
he stood by, we studied the bill- 
of-fare he handed to us. 

Hors d'oeuvres, yes, on those 
trays that would be wheeled to 
our table; and then а Madrelene 
soup, cold, if it were summer, or 
piping hot if the snow was falling 
outside; then a delicate sole, bonne 
femme, with its white wine sauce, 
and a sprinkling of truffles, which 
Lueullus himself would have envied; and 
then a casserole of chicken, with all its lavish 
accessories, the onions scarcely visible, but 
penetrating the great stone dish, 
singing likea Rossetti refrain that 
runs through the golden stanzas. 
And then, a salad heaped in a 
wooden bowl, wet and fragrant, 
whispering of Spring mornings, 
with a dressing especially pre- 
pared for us. Then, crêpe Suzette 
made at our very side, with its 
leaping flame of brandy over the 
silver dish, and a special coffee, 
rich and dark and full of its own 
perfume, with maybe a bit of 
Camembert, not running, but galloping in 
its yellow wonder to the edge of its plate. 

Sherry with the fish—a ruby Amontillado 
that told us, as it was poured from its sweet 
prison, of its old Spanish dreams. A Pontet 
Canet with the casserole, 1864, roused from 
its cobwebbed slumber for our delight alone, 
and a pint of Krug, 1883, languishing in its 


| metal bucket, turned and twisted by Henri 


in its bed of ice, popping its jubilant 
cork when the salad eame on; and 
last of all, an ancient fine of Napo- 
leon’s day, to be sipped as we puffed 
our Corona-Corona, and our lady 
surreptitiously smoked her dainty 


in those haleyon and far-distant days; but 
they could not smoke! Alas! now they may 
smoke to their heart’s content, but the old 
cellars from which came those dreamlike 
bottles, are closed to them as they are closed 
to us men also. Strange world, strange 
times. Only another manifestation of the 
contradictions that unhappily surround us. 

I remember Alicia, who liked 
to lunch up-town with 
me ona Saturday, say, 
and afterwards go to 
a matinee at the Em- 
pire, where ohn Drew 
or Maude Adams 
might be performing. 

She loved, on a warm 
Spring day, the bal- y 
conies at Sherry’s, which V 
drooped over the Avenue. v 


We could see the pretty 


proeession going by, but the procession 
could scarcely get a glimpse of us. If I were 
to meet her there, I would arrive ten min- 
utes earlier, and, knowing her tastes, would 
order the delicate things she preferred. An 
iced eanteloupe; a dainty lamb chop, with 
the tiniest peas surrounding it, and a dande- 
lion salad sprinkled with bits of egg, the 
yellow fragments like a shower of Danae's 
gold; and early strawberries, the stems still 
attached, dipped into powdered sugar. A 
pint of Chablis, the temperature of the 
room; and we might finish with coffee and a 
yellow Chartreuse, hail our hansom, and 
swing down to the theatre. 

Supper! The word has almost gone out; 
for one cannot call it supping in a noisy 
cabaret, and there is no such thing now as 
that old-time phrase, “А cold bottle and a 
hot bird." Yet when Delmonico’s 
was in its flowering prime, how often 
we went there after the Opera, and 
found a table in that small, cozy 
room which looked over Fifth avenue, 
and in the rosy glow ordered our blue- 
points, our squab, our sparkling pint 
of Pol Roger, our bit of Roquefort and 
our demitasse; and if we felt in high 
spirits, we would wash it all down with 
a wicked pousse café, which always 
reminded us of a little stiek of liquid 
candy, sweetening an evening's end. 
Or was it a tiny rainbow that we drank? 

There was a song of that period, “If the 
tables at Reetor's could speak," and more 
likely than not we would go to that flaming 
restaurant whieh punetuated the long sen- 
tence of Broadway, and see the men-about- 


town with their chorus ladies, or the beauti- 
ful Lillian Russell, sitting like a perfect yel- 
low rose in a corner, or Della Fox, with her 
celebrated ‘“dip’—that curl 
plastered over her white fore- 
head which every shopgirl in 
town tried to imitate, but with 
tragic failure. Here the cham- 
pagne flowed like Niagara, and 
the orchestra gushed the strains 
of Strauss waltzes. Only, there 
was no dancing, as there is today 
in crowded cabarets; only lobster 
suppers, and the low hum of 
flirtations under the rosy lamps. 
And often, too, we would fare 
Continued on page 109 


ESQUEIRE— Autumn, 1933 


ESQUIREC— Autumn, 1933 


Maybe it was something you ate, dear” 


17 


18 


“Dear Diary—" 


Е%Ф БЕ E— Autumn, 1933 


BELLISSIMA 


In America all the girls are 
beautiful blondes—day dream 
in bright Neapolitan sunshine 


by WILLIAM McFEE 


Twas the custom of Rich- 
ard Carola to lunch every 
day at the Stella D’ Italia, an 
upstairs restaurant in the 
middle of the busiest busi- 
ness street of Naples. He 
worked in the office of an Ameriean insur- 
anee company, but he looked very much 
like а young poet who was also an athlete, 
and he was eapable of great sentiment. He 
had a great liking for girls with fair hair and 
blue eyes, probably because he had only 
seen such creatures in pietures, in movies 
and in rapidly rolling motorears. 

At the Stella D'Italia the dark Neapolitan 
waitresses served him with his spaghetti or 
ravioli, and he also had a glass of red wine 
from the big fiasco on the table. Then coffee, 
a cigarette, and a walk back to the office. 
There he was Signor Carola. To himself he 
was always Richard because his American 
mother, who had met his father when the 
latter was consul in an American city, had 
named him that and not Ricardo. 

Very few foreigners found their way to the 
Stella D'Italia, which had mostly a business 
man’s lunch trade. Richard had sometimes 
thought of taking a meal at one of the big 
restaurants frequented by tourists, but the 
prices and the splendor frightened him. He 
wanted to improve his German and also rub 
up his spoken English, which had grown 
rusty since his mother had died. He cher- 
ished the hope that one day he would be able 
to visit America. One of the men in the 
office had told him that in America all the 
girls were beautiful blondes. His father, who 
was now a consul in Sweden, said that coun- 
try was infested with girls with yellow hair 
and blue eyes. But economic necessity and 
perhaps a natural love of his own city had 
led Richard Carola to stay at home and 
dream of an enchanted maiden. 

That was how he described her to himself, 
because the notion of a whole country full of 
sirens was too much for him. He only wanted 
one, and somehow neither his father in Swe- 
den nor the facetious American friend in the 
office quite understood what he had in mind. 

On the day of which we are speaking he 
had climbed the dark stairs, which smelled 
of food and wine, and had taken his aceus- 
tomed place in a eorner near a window. He 
had been aware of laughter and a foreign 
voice in the room as he came in, and he now 
saw а young man in a white linen suit seated 
by a girl in beige at the next table. 

“What I say is, Europe's all right for 
Europeans," said the young man, and 
laughed at his own brilliance. “We could 
shoot all this Eyetalian stuff at the studio in 
Hollywood." He was almost spherical in 
shape, for he had a thiek round body, a 
round face and round eyes sunk in circles of 
flesh, and he had two chins in front and an- 
other one behind his fat neck. His hands 
were white and fat, and one finger carried a 
ring whose diamond was just too large to be 
satisfactory. And what Richard felt most 


ESQUIREC-— Autumn, 1933 


was his proprietary manner toward the girl 
in beige, who was, although Richard had 
never heard the expression, a platinum 
blonde, and had also à most charming ex- 
pression. She was evidently enjoying life 
very much indeed, and as she carried herself 
as though she were someone of importanee, 
Richard was not surprised to hear her dis- 
agree with her companion. 

"Europe's all right for me too," she said. 
"T brought you up here so you could see how 
they live among themselves. There are only 
tourists at the big places.” 

'The spherieal young man made a remark 
about it being a blamed good job too, and 
spoke also of what he called wop joints" 
not being to his taste so much. 

“You are being rude," said the young lady 
with decision, “аз well as very silly. I sup- 
pose you think nothing's right outside of 
Hollywood Boulevard." She glanced at him 
for a moment. ““Ве yourself, Jake," she said 
erisply. She looked with unexpected sud- 
denness straight at Richard and smiled. 
Straight into his soul. 

Richard, although he was not aware of it 
at first, was staring straight at the young 
lady and thinking how ineredibly she resem- 
bled the ideal girl of whom А 
he had written agreat num- 
ber about a thousand % 
really of sonnets. A pale | 
golden erown һе saw her | 


hair beneath the eream colored turban she 
wore, a turban with a brilliant buckle of 
what he imagined were diamonds in front 
of it. And he began to think of her as a fair 
Circassian slave who had become the sultana 
of a fat sultan. The fat young man would 
have made a superb sultan of the wrong sort, 
Richard thought, for he was obviously just 
a little too rich to be satisfactory to anyone 
so young and romantie as Richard. 

Suddenly he realized that all this time he 
had been staring at the lovely girl, who was 
eating a Neapolitan ice cream of many col- 
ors, and her smile made him look away at 
once. Had he, too, been rude? He hoped 
not. He wanted so much to please her and 
to make her think he was a gentleman as well 
as a poet. 

“T wanted to come here again," the young 
lady said. This was the place I—and an- 
other girl—found years ago, when I was over 
with that college group I told you about 


once. We got lost in Naples, and we liked the 
name ‘Stella D’Italia.’ We had lunch here. 
I wanted to see if it was the same.” 

“Ts it?" snapped the fat young man, fixing 
a disapproving eye on Richard at the next 
table. 

“Well, yes, I think it's even nicer," said 
the girl. She took out a cigarette and smiled 
on Richard. Even nicer," she repeated. The 
fat young man made a slight gesture towards 
Richard. 

“Look who's here," he said in a low tone. 
“Valentino himself in person. Not a motion 
pieture. He'll eertainly know us both to 
swear to, Dolly. He hasn't taken his lamps 
off o' you since he came in." 

“That’s what makes it nicer," said the 
young lady, glancing for а moment at her 
companion with a very decided expression. 
"You're jealous, that's all.“ 

“Море, not jealous," said the young man. 
“But I'm liable to shoo little boys away from 
my candy.“ 

“T told you not to talk like that any more, 
Jake," she said sharply. Vou needn't allude 
to me as your eandy, either. I'm rather 
tired of that sort of thing." 

"Sez you?" said the young man, quietly. 

“Үез, and there's another thing," she said, 
looking at him pleasantly. 

"Now what?" said the fat young man. 

She was holding the unlighted cigarette in 
her fingers, and she had no match. Suddenly 
Richard leaped up and struck a match for her. 

“Will you permit—" he said slowly and 
carefully, permit the liberty?" 

The fat young man looked up at Richard 
in complete stupefaction. But Richard 
looked only at the young lady, who lit her 
cigarette and smiled at him. 

“Thanks a lot," she said, nodding and 
rising. I'm very much obliged to you. Do 
you know English?” 

“Росо,” said Richard. “А very little, sig- 
norina. My mother, she was an American 
also." 

“You think we are Americans?" the young 
lady said, while the fat young man, hovering 
over her, fumed. 

“Yes, I think perhaps you are American. 
But I do not think so much of that for you. 
T think уоп ате a a aa " he paused 
awkwardly. 

“What?” said the young lady. She was 
delighted at Richard’s nervousness and the 
young man’s annoyance. 

“T do not remember the word in English, 
but we call it bellissima.” 

“Why, that’s fine!“ she laughed. The 
young man looked at his watch. 

“Time to get on to the next dump—that’s 
Rome," he said. “TIl get the car. Aw come 
on, Dolly. What you want to waste time on 
that freshie for?” 

He's not fresh at all,“ she said. He's very 
nice.“ She nodded to Richard. Thanks 
again. And good-bye. A riverderoi. Isn't 
that what you say?" 

The fat young man was going down the 

Continued on page 77 


19 


, 


A TREATISE ON PIE 


Assorted thoughts about the 
only invention which nobody 
tries to take away from us 


EARLY every 
| invention is 
just the beginning 
of an argument, 
especially if the in- 
ventorisa Yankee. 

The school 
bookssay that Ful- 

— ton figured out the 
steamboat, but after he got his little craft to 
chugging up and down the Hudson, up 
jumps an Englishman who said that he built 
a steamboat and operated it, years before, 
and he was only too sorry that all the wit- 
nesses who had seen him do it were dead 
and gone. 

We have always believed that Elwood 
Haynes, down at Kokomo, Indiana, drove the 
first **horseless carriage," using gasoline as а 
fuel, but the Encyclopedia Britannica doesn't 
mention Elwood as one of the pioneers in the 
building of motor vehicles and gives all the 
credit to a flock of Europeans. 

Even Edison couldn't put across one of 
his astounding diseoveries without having 
some lad with a foreign name come out of 
the cellar, after it was all over, to dispute the 
achievement and try to prove, usually by 
his wife, that he had been working on the 
Edison idea for twenty or thirty years, or 
praetieally all of the time when he hadn't 
been in the poorhouse. 

I thought Ben Harney, of Louisville, in- 
vented ragtime, but a highbrow investigator 
tells me that the negroes brought it over 
from Africa two hundred years ago. 

Many people suppose that Rudy Vallee 
and Morton Downey and some more of the 
home boys, who learn singing by training 
the noses instead of the vocal eords, were the 
original erooners, but try to tell that to a 
turtle dove! A “croon,” according to the 
dictionary, is a low, monotonous moaning 
sound." That describes the noise made by 
the doves and also what comes over the 
radio. It cannot be described as anything 
but a “moan.” It is unquestionably mo- 
notonous” and nothing could be lower. 

How about chewing gum? The facts are 
that an American traveler found the Yuca- 
tan Indians, down in Mexico, developing their 
jaw muscles by chomping away on an inde- 
struetible **chicle," which they had scraped 
from trees in a jungle. He brought a lot of 
the stuff home with him and mixed it up 
with sugar and flavoring extracts and gave а 
large wad to his daughter, who was attend- 
ing high school, and within five years there 
was chewing gum on the under side of every 
chair in the United States. 

Probably the only home invention which 
nobody is trying to take away from us is pie. 
The gooseberry tart of Great Britain is no 
contender. It is small and warped and has 
no lid on it. It looks more like a paper- 
weight than something to eat. 

The home-made pie, as we know it, is not 
found anywhere else in the world. Americans 
who reside abroad cannot make genuine pie 


20 


by GEORGE ADE 


while they are under another flag, any more 
than a ship’s cook can make good breakfast 
coffee after the ship leaves the dock. Did 
you ever taste good coffee on an ocean liner? 
Did you ever try to get hot mince pie at the 
Excelsior Hotel in Rome or Shepheard’s, in 
Cairo? 

It’s funny what you сап get and can't get. 
A friend of mine, motoring down the New 
England coast, ordered steamed clams in 
Portland, Plymouth, Boston, Nantucket 
and New London. Every time he demanded 
steamed clams the head waiter suggested 
Spanish mackerel or broiled live lobster. 
Finally he hopped on a train and went to 
Omaha, and there he got all the clams he 
wanted. 

Benighted foreigners not only do not know 
about real pie but they have always been in 
ignorance regarding its significance and 
grandeur. For instance, the ancient Greeks 
thought that “Рі” was simply a letter in the 
alphabet. Crossword puzzles and printing 
offices regard “рі” as a scramble of type. 
The smallest copper coin circulating in India 
is called a pie.“ Out in the rural districts 
of Great Britain a pit for the winter storage 
of potatoes is called a pie.“ In all the cities 
of the United Kingdom a pie is not a pie un- 
less it contains heavy dough-balls and flesh 
of some kind. Beefsteak pie, kidney pie and 
veal pie are great favorites. The famous kind 
served at the old Cheshire Cheese, in Lon- 
don, where Samuel Johnson acquired the 
gout, is called lark pie." Imagine cooking 
a lot of meadow larks and a mess of vege- 
tables in an earthenware dish and calling the 
concoction a pie“? And yet they want us 
to cancel the war debts! 

When the Pilgrim Fathers escaped from 
religious tyranny and came over to New 
England to worship as they pleased and en- 
dure hardships, the first thing they did was 
to invent pie—not a servile imitation of any- 
thing in the Old World but a new and glo- 
rious combination, with a foundation of 
"shortening" and a roof of some flaky mate- 
rial, and a heavy filling of fruits or berries. 

Whenever they had eaten too much pie, 
they had to go out and burn a witch. Those 
who were overloaded with pie often saw, 
during the night, withered hags riding 
through the air on broomsticks. These were 
easily identified as old women who were 
locally unpopular and who were so dried up 
that they burned very readily. 

It might be said that New England pies 
were the very foundation stones of our Re- 
public. Some of them might have been used 
for that purpose. 

Pies develop character and heart-burn. 
They are for heroes, not weaklings. Pie- 
eaters are rugged charaeters. When they 
make up their minds to anything their 
opinions eannot be altered, not even by the 
use of biearbonate of soda. 

Norestaurant in this country ever became 
so ritzy that it dared to omit pies from the 
menu. It ean put a ball of iee eream on top 


and make it a la mode but in order to sell the 
iee eream they have to put pie underneath. 

Assorted thoughts about pie: 

The captain of industry will come from а 
$10 banquet by the Chamber of Commerce 
to sniteh a wedge of apple pie from the ice 
box and wash it down with a tall glass of 
half-and-half, half milk and half cream. 
Atta boy! 

Speaking of apple pie, dietitians suggest 
that the deep dish kind, floating with syrup 
and shot full of cinnamon, should be served 
on a hot water bag and garnished with 
digestive tablets. 

The jokesmiths of the woolly nineties 
could not have turned a wheel if some young 
man wearing white pants had not gone to 
a picnic and sat down on a blackberry pie. 

“Pecan pie" is the latest down south. One 
eup of chopped-up nuts, two cups of corn 
syrup, one eup of sugar and the yolks of 
three eggs. Whip up the whites of the eggs 
for a fluffy cap sheaf. A glass of “coke” with 
each slab of pie and walk out of the filling 
station all properly ballasted for a long 
motor ride. 

Any one who does not go in for fresh-made 
country '"punkin" pie with snappy cheese 
should be taken to a sanitarium. By the 
way, any woman who pronounces it *pump- 
kin" doesn't know how to make it. 

Pie made from dried fruit is just as satis- 
fying as a stepmother's kiss. 

The only decorative art practiced by the 
Pilgrim Mothers was to punch holes in the 
top erust of a pie, before putting it in the 
oven, so as to work out the design of a bird. 
Anchors were favored by ladies living in sea- 
port towns. One of these colonial pies was 
discovered in a railway eating station in 1874. 

One reason why no foreigner can compete 
with the American housewife in preparing 
pie erust is that he hasn't the nerve to put in 
a big eupful of lard to every quart of flour. 
He puts in water instead of lard and gets а 
thin, durable, non-resistant product which 
cannot be duplicated in this country except 
at the Bethlehem Steel Works, Bethlehem, 
Penna. 

Pie is the only thing Americans like which 
has not been prohibited or restricted at some 
time or other. 

Pie is so popular that people will take it, 
even when it is packed with rhubarb. 

Comic two-reelers of the Keystone period 
did not depend upon scenarios. Every direc- 
tor ordered a gross of custard pies and then 
began to engage actors. 

Eating pie with a fork is still regarded as 
a showoff in many communities, especially 
those which believe that all sinners will 
eventually be toasted on hot griddles. 

There is no let-up in the demand for pies, 
except at speakeasies. It seems that pie 
erust will not dissolve in sugar alcohol. 

Mince pies formerly contained so much 
brandy that even rich relatives became 
affable on Thanksgiving Day. 

Fresh cherry pie and buttermilk made a 

Continued on page 86 


ESQUIRE —Autumn, 1933 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


“Now lightly sprinkle in three teeny pinches of spice - 


21 


AUGUST AFTERNOON 


A remarkable study of cowardice, 
against a setting made famous in 
"Tobacco Road’ and “God’s Little Aere” 


by ERSKINE CALDWELL 


1c GLovER awoke with the noon-day 

heat ringing in his ears. He had been 
asleep for only half an hour, and he was get- 
ting ready to turn over and go back to sleep 
when he opened his eyes for a moment and 
saw Hubert’s black head over the top of his 
bare toes. He stretched his eyelids and held 
them open as long as he could. 

Hubert was standing in the yard, at the 
edge of the porch, with a pine cone in his 
hand. 

Vie cursed him. 

The colored man raked the cone over the 
tops of Vie's toes and stepped back out of 
reach. 

“What do you mean by standing there 
tickling me with that dad-burned cone?" 
Vie shouted at Hubert. “‘Is that all you can 
find to do? Why don’t you get out in that 
field and do something to those boll-weevils? 
They’re going to eat up every pound of cot- 
ton on the place if you don’t stop them.” 

“I surely hated to wake you up, Mr. Vie,” 
Hubert said, but there's a white man out 
here looking for something. He won’t say 
what he wants, but he’s hanging around for 
something.” 

Vie was wide awake by that time. He sat 
up on the quilt and pulled on his shoes with- 
out looking into the yard. The white sand 
in the yard beat the glare of the sun directly 
into his eyes and he could see nothing be- 
yond the edge of the porch. Hubert threw 
the pine cone under the porch and stepped 
aside. 

“Не must be looking for trouble," Vie 
said. When they come around and don't 
say anything, and just sit, it's trouble they're 
looking for." 

““Тһеге he is, Mr. Vie," Hubert said, nod- 
ding his head across the yard. “‘There he sits 
up against that water oak.” 

Vie looked around for Willie. Willie was 
sitting on the top step at the other end of the 
porch, direetly in front of the stranger. She 
did not look at Vie. 

“You ought to have better sense than to 
wake me up while I'm taking a nap. This is 
no time of day to be up. I've got to get a 
little sleep every now and then." 

"Boss," Hubert said, “І wouldn't wake 
you up at all, not at any time, but Miss 
Willie just sits there high up on the steps 
and that white man has been out there 
whittling on a little stick a pretty long time 
without saying anything. I’ve got scared 
about something happening when he whit- 
tles that little stiek elear through, and it's 
just about whittled down to nothing now." 

Vie glanced again at Willie, and from her 
he turned to stare at the stranger sitting 
under the water oak tree in his front yard. 

The piece of wood had been shaved down 
to paper thinness. 

Boss, Hubert said, we ain't aiming to 
have no trouble today, are we?" 

“Which way did he come from?" Vic 
asked. 

“Т never did see him come, Mr. Vie. I just 


looked up, and there he was, sitting against 
that water oak whittling on a little stick. I 
reekon I must have been sleeping when he 
eame, beeause when I looked up, there he 
was." 

Vie slid down over the quilt until his legs 
were hanging over the edge of the porch. 
Perspiration began to trickle down his neck 
as soon as he sat up. 

Ask him what he's after, Hubert." 

We ain't aiming to have no trouble to- 
day, are we, Mr. Vie?" 

Ask him what he wants, I said." 

Hubert went almost half way to the water 
oak tree and stopped. 

"Mr. Vie says what ean he do for you, 
white-folks.” 

The man said nothing. He did not even 
glance up. 

Hubert came back to the porch, the whites 
of his eyes becoming larger with each step. 

“What did he say?” Vie asked him. 

“He ain’t said nothing yet, Mr. Vic. He 
acts like he don’t hear me at all. You'd bet- 
ter go talk to him, Mr. Vie. He won't give 
me no attention. Appears to me like he’s just 
sitting there looking at Miss Willie on the 
high step. Maybe if you was to tell her to 
go in the house and shut the door, he might 
be persuaded to give some notice to what we 
say to him.” 

“Can’t see any sense in sending her in the 
house," Vie said. *I can make him talk. 
Hand me that stilyerd.” 

“Mr. Vie, I’m trying to tell you about 
Miss Willie. Miss Willie’s been sitting there 
on that high step and he’s been looking up 
at her a right long time, Mr. Vie. If you 
won’t object to me saying so, Mr. Vie, I 
reckon I'd tell Miss Willie to go sit some- 
where else, if I was you. Miss Willie ain't 
got much on today, Mr. Vie. That's what 
I've been trying to tell you." 

*Hand me that stilyerd, I said." 

Hubert went to the end of the porch and 
brought the eotton steelyard to Vie. He 
stepped back out of the way. 

“Boss,” Hubert said, “уе ain't aiming to 
have no trouble today, are we?“ 

Vie was getting ready to jump down into 
the yard when the man under the water oak 
reached into his pocket and pulled out an- 
other knife. It was about nine inches long, 
and both sides of the handle were covered 
with hairy eowhide. There was a spring- 
button on one end. The man pushed the but- 
ton with his thumb, and the blade sprang 
open. He began playing with both knives, 
throwing them up in the air and eatching 
them on the back of his hands. 

Hubert moved to the other side of Vic. 

“Mr. Vie," he said, “I ain't intending to 
mix in your business none, but it looks to 
me like you got yourself in for a mess of trou- 
ble when you went off and brought Miss 
Willie back here. It looks to me like she’s 
got up for a city girl, more so than a country 
girl." 

Vie eursed him. 


'm telling you, Mr. Vie, a country girl 
wouldn't sit on a high step in front of a man, 
not when she wasn't wearing nothing but 
that blue wrapper, anyhow.” 

“Shut up," Vie said, laying the steelyard 
down on the quilt beside him. 

The man under the water oak closed the 
blade of the small knife and put it into his 
pocket. The big cowhide-covered knife he 
flipped into the air and eaught easily on the 
back of his hand. 

What's your name?“ he asked Willie. 

“Willie.” 

He flipped the knife again. 

“What’s yours?” she asked him. 

“Floyd.” 

Where are you from?" 

“Carolina.” 

He flipped it higher, catching it under- 
handed. 

What are you doing in Georgia?" 

Don't know," he said. Just looking 
around." 

Willie giggled, smiling at him. 

Floyd got up and walked across the yard 
to the steps and sat down on the bottom one. 
He put his arm around his knees and looked 
up at Willie. 

"You're not so bad-looking," he said. 
“Гуе seen lots worse looking." 

“You're not so bad yourself," Willie gig- 
gled, resting her arms on her knees and look- 
ing down at him. 

How about a kiss?" 

*What would it be to you?" 

“Not bad. I reckon I've had lots worse.” 

“Well, you can't get it sitting down 
there." 

Floyd climbed the steps on his hands and 
feet and sat down on the next to the top 
step. He leaned against Willie, putting one 
arm around her waist and the other over her 
knees. Willie slid down to the step beside 
him. 

Boss,“ Hubert said, his lips twitching, 
“we ain't going to have no trouble today, 
are we?" 

Vie cursed him. 

Willie and Floyd moved down a step 
without loosening their embrace. 

“Who is that yellow-headed sap-sucker, 
anyhow?” Vie said. “ГИ be dad-burned if he 
ain't got a lot of nerve—coming here and 
fooling with Willie.” 

“You wouldn’t do nothing to cause trou- 
ble, would you, Mr. Vie? I surely don’t 
want to have no trouble today, Mr. Vie.” 

Vie glanced at the nine-inch knife Floyd 
had, stuck into the step at his feet. It stood 
on its tip eighteen inches high, while the sun 
was refleeted against the bright blade and 
made a streak of light on Floyd's pant leg. 

“Go over there and take that knife away 
from him and bring it here," Vie said. 
“Don’t be seared of him." 

“Mr. Vie, I surely hate to disappoint you, 
but if you want that white-folk's knife, 
you'll just have to get it your own self. I 
don't aim to have myself all earved up with 

Continued on page 89 


ESQUIRE – Autumn, 1933 


* Darling, what—kachoo—difference does age—kachoo—make anyway?" 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 23 


24 


If you can get away tonight, I’ve got two tickets to the Folies Bergeres” 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


STONEWALL AND IVY 


by 


EXT Sunday while you're reading the 

football seores run down the list until 
you come to Jefferson. If the figures is 36 
for Jefferson to Georgia's 0, don't blink, be- 
cause it won't be no misprint. 

Ask Lou Little or Monk Younger or any 
of them coaches we've taken over the bumps 
this fall, and they'll all tell you we're just a 
one-man team. Well, that's O.K. with me. 
You might say Samson was just à one-man 
firm of house-wreckers. Come to think of it, 
Samson's story was a lot like Stonewall's. 

“Gimme that guy Jackson,” Monk snaps 
at me after we'd massacred his outfit, “апа 
ГІІ tackle the whole Jap Army with lady- 
fingers.” But then Monk never did have 
much mercy. Personally, I ain't got a thing 
against the Japs. 

Unless you're from the South it won't be 
likely you've ever heard of me. But down 
here everybody knows old Doe Reeves, and 
specially this fall I got more friends than 
ever. It'slike that when you're on top, sail- 
ing high. Now even if Carolina takes us on 
Thanksgiving—which they won't —I'm still 
satisfied. It's been a fourteen year job, but 
I'veshown 'em. Me and Stonewall. 

Maybe I better begin when I first come 
here to Jefferson. Back in '19, after the 
war'd broke up our pro league out in Ohio, I 
drifted down to Virginia on a lead from old 
Jim Thorpe. Jefferson had wired Jim the 
offer but he'd already signed up with Kansas 
and he passed me the tip. 

It might have been these quiet green 
lawns with the Blue Ridge Mountains rising 
sort of smoky in the West, or it might have 
been my first drink of corn, but whatever it 
was I knew a hour after I’d hopped off the 
train that if I could stay this’d be home. 

And I stayed. For fourteen years now I 
been coaching Jeff’s football teams—good, 
bad, but mostly indifferent. I ain't old 
enough to retire yet, but when it rains my 
legs bother me, and this year the university 
give me a house, a little white cottage out on 
Rugby Road. That’s going to be home, the 
first real one I ever had, where I can sit on 
the back porch after supper and watch the 
sunset over Afton Mountain. 

It'll be great to have all the boys dropping 
in on me there, sitting around a charred 
keg maybe, and playing the games over 
again on the kitehen table. Most of the 
stories won't end too good, I guess, but 
there's one I won't ever get tired of. One 
story that give me more gray hairs than all 
the fumbles and blocked punts in twenty 
years. 

You see in all the time I been at Jefferson 
somehow I don’t ever have a great team— 
until this year. The boys is young, sixteen or 
seventeen, when they come here, and they 
never run much to size. We don’t have the 
money to pay the best players; they all go 
over to State and wind eight-day clocks for 
expenses. I just have to plug along with 
what I get, always hoping and praying that 
next September’ll bring me a pair of big 


ES Q@UIR E—Autumn, 1933 


A clinging vine can stop a 
one-man football eum 
unless the coach is clever 


ROBERT BUCKNER 


rangy tackles and a brace of ends like Jerry 
Dalrymple, with one good back to tote the 
mail. Just one. 

That’s probably what I’m thinking of one 
night last fall when I’m walking home late 
from the poolroom, where we'd been having 
a little celebration. It’s raining and I ain’t 
looking up when I cross the tennis courts be- 
cause the first thing I know I’ve run smack 
into a horse. Anyway it felt like a horse. I 
sit there in the dark in a puddle of water, 
wondering what to do. 

“Whoa, gal," I says soft-like. 

There’s a shuffling sound and I feel I been 
lifted up by a derrick. 

“Sorry, suh, I didn’t see yuh coming,” 
somebody says. 

I knew one little keg hadn’t been strong 
enough to fuzzle my head that much, but for 
a minute I couldn't speak. I thought, Lord, 
don't let this mountain I’ve run into be a 
tramp from a C. & O. freight, or a drunk 
piano mover, or anything but а Freshman— 
just a plain lost Freshman, as big as I think 
he is. I opened my eyes and there in the 
dim light I first see Stonewall, all six foot 
five of him. I took a deep breath: 

“Tf you ain't Primo Carnera or the Empire 
State Building," I asks, what are you?" 

He laughs. “Му name’s Jackson, suh. І 
just got in tonight. I guess maybe I'm lost. 
I can’t find my way round this town ve'y 
well.” 

I reach out and catch hold of a paw like a 
Smithfield ham. It could of palmed a foot- 
ball. 

“Come on home with me, son,” I said. 
“My name's Doe Reeves. I live over here 
behind the gym. We'll find your place in the 
morning.” 

“Gosh!” he cries. “Ате you Doe Reeves 
the coach?” 

What's left of it.“ 


“Say, Doe, it may sound erazy but I been 
wanting to meet you ever since I can re- 
member!“ he says, sort of excited. 

“T reckon I have too, son," I replied. 
“You ever play any football?” 

“Just in a little jerk-water high school 
down in the Tidewater," he says modestly. 
We had a hard time getting games." 

His voice booms down to me like a man 
beating a bass drum on top an elephant. 

“T ain't surprised at that," I says. 

When we get to my room and I turn on the 
light I see he's been carrying a small trunk 
in his left hand. 

* * * 

That was how I come to find Tayloe Din- 
widdie Jackson—‘“‘Stonewall the Second" to 
the boys. The first one must of been before 
my time, because I never saw a fullback any- 
where like him, and I've seen ’em all, prac- 
tically. All these stories you read about my 
picking him out of a Welch County coal 
mine and a County Fair side-show is just 
sports page boloney. But the reporters has 
mostly been friends to me so I'll let that lay. 

We better skip over last year. I know I 
iried to hard enough. While I was losing six 
out of eight games and only beating Ran- 
dolph Macon and V. M. I. by flukes, our 
Freshmen team was running wild over every- 
thing in sight. We had ’em up in the stadium 
for a scrimmage once, but only once! With 
Santrell and Cody, a couple of wiry moun- 
taineer boys, on the ends, and Bucky Harris 
at quarter, they opened up holes that Stone- 
wall slammed through like the Florida Ex- 
press when she passes here behind time. I 
take one look at the wreckage to my line 
and eall the boy who's our manager. 

Whitey,“ I says, *'serap our schedule for 
33, roll it up and make pipe-cleaners out of 
it. Wire Yale, Harvard, Navy, Princeton, 
Penn and Dartmouth. If that leaves us a 
open date fill it in with Notre Dame.” 

The news must of got out pretty fast, be- 
eause first thing I know I get a flock of let- 
ters and telegrams from our alumni asking 
for the low-down on Stonewall and making 
reservations for next year’s games. Now 
I’m not strong оп writing letters, but there’s 
one thing I like to do, and that’s keep in 
touch with all the boys I ever coached. It’s 
good business too. Well, soon my mail gets 
so heavy I have to ask for a secretary, and 
right there’s where I made my big mistake. 
Because the gal they sent me over from the 
Dean’s office has to be Ivy Rogers. Just be- 
tween us, did you ever know a Dean with 
any brains about women? 

Now I'd known Ivy Rogers ever since I 
come to Jefferson. Her old man is the col- 
lege photographer and Ivy's been romping 
over the eampus sinee she was a baby. I 
remember the first time I saw her she was 
sitting in a boy's lap over on West Lawn, 
eating chocolate eake, and with her long 
golden hair eurled as tight as brass pipes. 

She was like one of these awful kids you 
see in the movies, always rolling her eyes 

Continued on page 92 


25 


26 


*T don't know what calibre I should get, but my husband is about that size —” 


ESQ UIRE— Autumn, 1933 


THE CHECK-BOOK 


A comedy of manners and of 
mathematics and of the 
strain that comes between 


by GEOFFREY KERR 


qu telephone 
rang; and Mr. 


Medway, being 
downstairs, answered 
it. 

Who is it?“ called 
Mrs. Medway, from 
upstairs. 

"It's a Mr. Car- 
ruthersat yourbank." 

"Say ТШ call him 
back.” 

“He says you were 
promising to call him 
back all yesterday,” 
said Mr. Medway, a 
moment later; “апа 
he’s got to speak to 
you now.” 

“Say I’m taking a bath.” 

There was another short telephone con- 
versation. 

“He says according to his records you've 
had seven baths since yesterday morning.” 

“Well, say I'm really taking one now,” 
said Mrs. Medway, coming downstairs. 
“You talk to him for me, please, darling.” 

When he finally hung up and entered the 
living-room, he found his wife standing in 
the attitude of one about to receive a сау- 
alry charge. 

"You're overdrawn forty-three dollars 
and seventy-two cents," he remarked. 

“T was afraid it was about that.” 

“How long have you known?” 

“Since yesterday morning. A thing ar- 
rived in the mail. And they’ve been calling 
up ever since.” 

Why didn’t you tell me?“ 

“T was afraid it would worry you. And I 
knew you’d have to know sooner or later. 
I've been trying to forget about it." 

“You can't forget about an overdraft.” 

“No. I found that out.” 

“You told me two days ago that you had 
about a hundred and fifty dollars in your 
account.” 

“I thought I had.” 

“Then I can’t understand how you can be 
overdrawn!” 

“Nor can I. It must be a mistake.” 

“You mean of the bank's?" 

*"No—of mine.” 

He groaned once or twice and then asked 
her if he might glance through her check- 
book. She shook her head. 

Why not?" 

“I don't want you to see it.” 

“Well, of course, if there are things in it 
you don’t want me to see—" 

“No, no, Jim, there isn’t anything in there 
I should mind your seeing. I just don’t want 
you to see it, that’s all.“ 

We've got to get this thing straightened 
out.“ 

"I don't think my check-book will help 
you. For one thing, you eouldn't possibly 
understand it." 

“You ean explain it to ше.” 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


"I'm not very good 
at explaining things." 

He continued to in- 
sist and at last she 
gave way. 

“You promise not 
to laugh?” 

He promised. 

“And you mustn't 
get angry either!" 

She started for her 
desk and stopped. 

“Would you like 
me to fix you a nice 
drink of some kind?" 

“At this hour of the 
morning?” 

Humming an un- 
easy bar or two, she 
opened a drawer and returned with the 
check-book. 

His emotions on opening it were neither 
anger nor amusement. They were more akin 
to those of one beholding for the first time 
the original manuscript of the Koran. He 
fluttered the pages helplessly. 

“T can’t make head or tail of it," he said. 

“T told you you wouldn't be able to.” 

“Сап you understand it yourself?" 

“Some of it I can." She turned back to- 
wards the beginning. Now there's a fairly 
easy page." 

“Are these the amounts of the checks 
down here?“ 

“Yes, that’s right. But of course the 
amount I put down here isn’t the same as 
the amount I put on the check. At least it is 
sometimes, but not as a гше.” 

“Ts that to make it simpler?" 

“Yes. You see, if it’s an amount that’s 
hard to do sums with—like fifty-seven dol- 
lars and ninety-nine cents, I put an easy 
amount here, like sixty-dollars.” 

“Do you always put down an amount 
that’s bigger than the check was for?" 

“Of course. Because I make money that 
way. Because I’m always subtracting more 
than I’m really taking out. So I always 
have more money in the bank than I think 
I have." 

“Hence the overdraft!” 

“If you're going to be sarcastic!” 

He made another prom- 
ise. 
“That check there, for 
instanee," she said, “Чо 
Isobel Smythe. It was 
really for ninety-three dol- 
lars and seventy-six cents 
—or some absurd amount 
like that—so I put down 
a hundred.” 

“Is that a hundred 
there?" 

Nes 

“You didn't add it as a 
hundred. You added it as 
ten. What's this deposit 
here?" 


“That’s not a deposit. I think it’s the 
date." 

“You added it in. Maybe this is where 
the trouble started." 

He turned to another page, the most con- 
spicuous features on which were a large 
arrow and a earefully drawn and shaded 
moon. 

“Do they mean anything?" 

“Of course they do. The arrow was to re- 
mind me of something." 

"Of what?" 

“T can’t remember now. It’s something 
I never can remember. That’s why I put the 
arrow. The moon means ‘Stop and take 
note!” 

“Of what?” 

“Something to do with that check there, 
I expect. You don’t want to see any more, 
do you?” 

“Has the large landscape drawing on the 
next page got any special significance?” 

“I was waiting for a long distance call.” 

“Then on the page after that you've got 
the word ‘mistake’ printed across the bot- 
tom in large letters. What does that mean?" 

“Tt means there's a mistake on that page. 
Every time I added it up it eame out differ- 
ent. I couldn't make it come out the same. 
So I wrote the word *mistake' so I'd know 
there was a mistake." 

He turned some more pages. 

"After that there don't seem to be any 
amounts at all. Just dashes.” 

“They mean that I did write the checks. 
But they were all very small ones. You 
know—just for a dollar or two.” 

“But checks like that add up to quite 
a lot." 

"I suppose they do, really. But I never 
ean see why they should." 

“Ког the last two weeks you apparently 
haven't made any attempt to keep track of 
things at ай.” 

Well, there didn’t seem any point—after 
that mistake. I mean, once you've made a 
mistake it's going to be wrong anyway, 
isn't it?" 

“T don't think I ean bear any more," said 
Mr. Medway, as he gave her back the book. 
“ГІ write you a check now and you'd better 
take it straight down to the bank and get 
hold of this Mr. Carru- 
thers and stay with him 
till you get everything 
really straightened out. I 
should plan to spend the 
day there." 

“Thank you, darling.” 

He knew that she was 
thanking him for saying 
so little about it. Quiver- 
ing slightly with the effort 
the suppression had cost 
him, he got out his own 
check-book and hastily 
made out a check. 

“Thank you, darling," 
she said again, as he 

Continued on page 74 


27 


AQUATINT BY JOHN GROTH 


*Get me that book on appendicitis" 


ESQUIW E— Autumn, 1933 


GRANDSTAND 


When Champions go. they go like 
the one-hoss shay. all over all 
at once—here are reasons why 


by CHARLES W. PADDOCK 


T 15 hard for the layman to understand 

how a champion in any sport can go to 
pieces all at once. Sometimes it is due to a 
lack of condition. But not often. The man 
who loses his title is generally as physically 
fit as his suecessor. But he is seldom as men- 
tally keen. Having reached the goal, he does 
not possess the same eager flame of desire, 
and the longer he stays out of the game, the 
more difficult it is for him to come back again. 

We often get the impression that a star 
today, is only a shell of himself, tomorrow. 
In such cases, the deterioration has been so 
subtle and gradual that we fail to recognize 
it. Yet it has been going on just the same. 
There are no exceptions. Great athletes 
like Gene Tunney in boxing, Paavo Nurmi 
in running, Johnny Weismuller in swim- 
ming, Jim Thorpe in football, Babe Ruth in 
baseball, Helen Wills Moody and Bill Tilden 
in tennis and Bobby Jones in golf have either 
retired while still at the top or have pos- 
sessed the happy faeulty of being able to 
make perennial comebacks. This has been 
due to extraordinary natural ability or lack 
of severe competition. 

Most of us in sport, however, suddenly 
drop from some place near the top to the 
bottom and stay there. It is not such a re- 
markable thing, when you analyze it, that a 
man ean wake up one morning as champion 
in his partieular sport, and go to bed that 
night with no more athletie future than a 
brokendown gigolo. It happens regularly. 
I know. 

In the Amsterdam Olympie Games, I was 
the favorite to win the 200 meters champion- 
ship at 2:30 on the afternoon of August 5, 
1928, but at 2:31 I was a has-been of the 
lowest rank. Nothing happened in that one 
minute to destroy, permanently, my speed, 
strength or natural sprinting ability. Yet I 
was, athletically speaking, washed up" for 
all time, and no one knew it any better than 
myself. 

After some fifteen years of more or less 
successful competition, I had made a “‘come- 
back” by winning a place on the American 
Olympie 200 meter team. In the first day's 
trials, the only opponents who should have 
given me any trouble had either been elimi- 
nated or had run themselves out. I had won 
my first two preliminary heats with ease. 
My most dangerous American rival, Charles 
E. Borah, nephew of the famous senator 
from Idaho, had failed to finish better than 
third in the second series of trials with only 
two men to qualify. His opponents were 
Helmut Kornig of Germany and Perey Wil- 
liams of Canada. Borah fought so hard that 
he took the “edge” away from them both. 
That last burst of speed, which they had been 
saving for the finals, was expended in de- 
feating the American. Helmet Kornig, a 
frail young athlete, was so exhausted that 
there was little hope held out for him in the 
finals, while the slender Williams who had 
already won the hundred meters by the nar- 
rowest of margins was also regarded as not 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


strong enough to make a showing in the 
semi-finals and championship races. 

It appeared that I had things all my own 
way when the third round of trials was 
called. I found myself in the same heat with 
Williams, Walter Rangeley of Great Britain 
who had never been a startling performer, 
Jacob Schuler of Germany, Gomez Gaza of 
Mexico whom I had beaten in previous 
starts, апа Wilfred Legg of South Africa 
who had a badly pulled muscle which could 
not be expeeted to hold up for another 200 
meters. All I had to do in order to qualify 
was to finish in the first three. 

We drew numbers to determine our lanes, 
and the moment my fingers felt the disc, 
confidence completely deserted me. I had 
drawn an outside position on the eurve and 
several thoughts flashed through my mind 
while I dug my starting holes. I remem- 
bered the Olympie 200 meters at Antwerp in 
1920 when I had found myself outside of 
Allen. Woodring of Syraeuse University. 
Woodring was not favored to win that race, 
yet he eame through in the final yards to the 
championship. I recalled the Olympie 200 
meters at Paris in 1924 when Jack Scholz 
from the inside lane had beaten me in the 
last foot. 

The lanes are always staggered in an 
Olympie 200 meters to allow for the turn. 
That is to say, the man on the pole starts 
about two yards behind the runner in the 
second lane and so on until the runner in the 
sixth or outside position is quite a distance 
in front of the first and second men. This 
makes each athlete run the same yardage, 
but it gives a strong mental advantage to 
the man on the inside. He has a chance to 
see what the competitors ahead of him are 
doing. He сап gauge his own pace by theirs 


and make his final burst at the moment 
when he senses that they are beginning to 
weaken. The front sprinter is forced to run 
an entirely different kind of race. He has to 
start fast and go hard until he hits the home- 
stretch. Until then, he has no idea of his 
position. Sometimes he runs too fast; some- 
times too slow. But there is one thing cer- 
tain. If two sprinters of equal ability meet, 
the man on the inside, if he is an old hand 
at the game, will win. 

Drawing the fifth lane in the semi-finals 
at Amsterdam should not have worried me. 
Yet what had happened in the past kept me 
from concentrating—destroyed my confi- 
dence. 

The gun had no more than barked before 
Legg, the one runner who had started in 
front of me, pulled up lame. I was left to 
judge my own pace, and I ran too slowly 
around the turn, hitting the straightaway 
two yards behind Kornig, Williams and 
Rangeley. There was time left to catch them. 
But my mental reactions were all wrong and 
my legs were not driving properly. Instead 
of my body falling forward with each stride, 
helping to increase my momentum, I was 
already leaning backwards. I could not 
"gather" for the finish, and the farther we 
ran the worse I got. I failed to qualify for 
the finals. My championship hopes were 
blasted and with them went the incentive 
to try again. 

An athlete fights hard to get to the top, 
but when he is once there, it is inevitable 
that he should in time start downhill. 
Though the descent is at first almost imper- 
ceptible, the farther he goes the easier it be- 
eomes, until before he knows it, he has lost 
the strength which he had developed in 
climbing to the heights and is the victim of 

Continued on page 30 


29 


GRANDSTAND 
Continued from page 29 
the first real contender who happens along. 

'The champion who has been beaten loses, 
together with his incentive, confidence in 
himself. Generally he is vastly affected by 
what others think or say. This is true of 
track and field champions, and I am sure the 
stars of other sports are similarly affected. 

Ted Meredith of Pennsylvania Univer- 
sity, the greatest middle distance runner of 
all time, until the recent arrival of Big Ben 
Eastman of Stanford, went out like a light. 
There was no warning that he had perma- 
nently slipped. For years he had lost races 
only to come back later with still more re- 
markable victories. As a Mercersberg school 
boy he had gone to Stockholm in 1912 as a 
member of the American Olympic team. He 
returned home with the championship of 
the world in the 800 meters. 

During a part of his college career at Penn 
he did not run so well, but in 1916 he broke 
the world’s records in both the quarter and 
the half mile at the Intercollegiate cham- 
pionships within an hour, while in 1917 be- 
fore entering service he displayed dazzling 
speed, indoors. 

In 1920, he appeared to be the same great 
champion in our Final Olympic Tryouts and 
won the right to compete in the 400 meters 
at Antwerp. But after he had qualified for 
the semi-finals he lost heart. He thought 
that his legs could not stand up under two 
more races and he faded out of the athletic 
picture for all time, losing to his team-mate 
Frank Shea, to George Butler of Great 
Britain and to Dafel of South Africa, all of 
whom were beaten in the finals. 

Morris Kirksey of Stanford University, 
whom I have always considered as the hard- 
est man to beat I ever faced, lost his speed 
overnight. Kirksey, as a high school star, 
had things too easy. There were no runners 
with his ability in competition at the time 
and he won as he pleased. During the form- 
ative years his muscles were not stretched, 
with the result that when he later faced 
opponents of his own calibre, they could not 
stand up under the strain. His great courage 
and his strong recuperative powers however, 
kept him in the running and he led the 1920 
Olympic 100 meter race to within a yard of 
the finish. Our battles were always so close 
that they inspired the Stanford star to 
greater and greater efforts. Instead of being 
downeast by defeat, he fought all the harder. 
And that kind of a competitor is the most 
difficult to beat. 

Kirksey, after years of climbing, at last 
reached the top. There were no college 
sprinters in his class. But the moment that 
this great fighter realized that he was with- 
out serious competition, he went completely 
to pieces and never ran another good race. 
Being champion sometimes does strange 
things. For years he had occupied the posi- 
tion of having everything to win and noth- 
thing to lose. 

Though there was little of the 
grandstander about Morris Kirk- 
sey, he nevertheless had come to de- 
pend upon its support. An Amer- 
ican crowd is the most fickle in the 
world. It loves a champion, but it 
adores a game under-dog. Kirksey 
had been the latter, but the mo- 
ment he was the favorite, the crowd 
turned against him and though he 
said that he did not mind what peo- 
ple thought or how they acted, he 
was unconsciously influenced by 
their desertion and cracked over- 
night. 

A word dropped at the psycho- 
logical moment also has its part to 


30 


The first good boy who happens along... 


play in the making and breaking of cham- 
pions. For eight years, representatives of 
the negro race won our national broad jump 
championship. Sol Butler of Dubuque Col- 
lege in Iowa took the title in 1920. He had 
previously won the Inter-Allied Games 
championship in 1919. Ned Gourdin of 
Harvard University won in 1921. Then a 
dark-skinned, keen-witted, cocky young fel- 
low from Cincinnati, named DeHart Hub- 
bard, commenced to show his wares. For 
six seasons he held his throne, winning along 
with the American title, the Olympic cham- 
pionship at Paris, and breaking the world’s 
record. He seemed able to jump more than 
25 feet, any time out, while the rest of the 
stars were struggling along a full foot behind. 
Hubbard had everything to himself and 
he was not bashful about admitting his 
superiority. He boasted of his prowess so 
much that every jumper in the country was 
aching to royally trim him while spectators 
wherever he went, were ready to sealp him. 
Though outrageously self-confident, De- 
Hart Hubbard was game. In fact, he loved 
having the crowd badger him and the louder 
they shrieked the farther he jumped. 
Hubbard was counted upon to successfully 
defend his Olympie championship at Am- 
sterdam. He went to the Final Tryouts at 
Cambridge, Massachusetts with the following 
incomparable record of six successive cham- 


pionships: 
TOD ana 24 ft. 514 inches 
1928 sees 24 ft. 734 inches 
1924 24 ft. 
1925... 25 ft. 436 inches 
1926... 25 ft. 214 inches 
1927.. 25 ft. 834 inches 


Just before the event was held, Eddie 
Hamm, a handsome, sleepy Southerner, 


... sends him hurtling down the hill to oblivion 


born in Arkansas and schooled at Georgia 
Tech, drawled to Hubbard: “Му father told 
me that if I came to Boston and was beaten 
by any gentleman of color, I needn't come 
home any more, so I guess I'll just naturally 
have to skin you and your boy friend, Ed 
Gordon." 'The latter was a long, lithe negro 
from Iowa University who had also been 
jumping close to 25 feet. 

DeHart Hubbard who had met and de- 
feated all challengers for a half dozen years, 
couldn’t get Hamm’s statement out of his 
mind, or the glint of Eddie’s steel-blue eyes 
when he made it, and for the first time in a 
national championship he failed to clear 24 
feet, jumping 23 ft. 1114 inches, while Gor- 
don's best effort was 23 ft. 634 inches. As for 
the Georgia Tech champion, he proceeded to 
leap 25 feet, 1114 inches to a new national 
and world’s record, defeating the greatest 
broad jumper of all time by almost a foot. 

Hubbard still had a chance to redeem him- 
self. As a member of the American team he 
could even the count and regain his lost 
laurels by successfully defending his Olym- 
pic crown at Amsterdam. Going over on the 
boat, he tried to talk in his old jaunty man- 
ner and boasted that there would be nothing 
to it when he reached Europe. 

Hamm did not say very much. We shared 
the same room on the boat before the Games 
and from the way that Eddie acted, I felt 
reasonably certain that what he had said 
about the broad jump at Cambridge went 
double for Amsterdam. And I think that 
Hubbard realized it himself. 

When the Olympic event ended, Eddie 
Hamm had established a new Olympic гес- 
ord of 25 ft. 434 inches, beating a negro boy, 
S. P. Caytor of Haiti, who was later to set a 
new world’s mark, while DeHart Hubbard 
and hisfriend, Ed Gordon, both failed to place. 

Eddie Hamm had achieved his ambition. 
He went back to the South and soon dropped 
out of the competitive picture. He tried 
once or twice to reach his Olympic form and 
failed. The incentive was no longer present. 

There is all the difference in the world be- 
tween climbing to the top of the heap and in 
staying there after you have once arrived. 
Pride, and sometimes money and position, 
force an athlete to fight desperately against 
all challengers. But these characteristics 
are not in themselves strong enough to over- 
throw the spirit of youth backed by great 
natural ability. 

No finer illustration of the futility of try- 
ing to stay at the top too long can be pic- 
tured than the story of Jack Dempsey at 
Philadelphia. He told me after his fight 
with James Joseph Tunney that he knew in 
the eighth round of that battle that he could 
not win. Time and again he hit Gene with 
everything he had and Tunney always came 
back for more until Jack was sure that he 
could not knock Tunney out. He was also 
equally certain that he had been out-pointed 
and out-boxed to such an extent that even if 
he should win the eighth, the ninth 
and the tenth rounds nevertheless 
he would still lose the championship 
of the world. 

It would have been relatively 
easy under those circumstances for 
Dempsey to have taken one of Tun- 
ney's blows a little bit harder than 
it aetually eame and to have been 
counted out. By doing so he felt that 
he might have saved himself for a 
return match. But the code of a 
champion is to fight to the finish. 
And Dempsey that night at Phila- 
delphia was still a champion. He 
stayed on his feet. 

Physically, Dempsey was badly 
battered and bruised. But in time 

Continued on page 74 


ESQ UIRE—Autumn, 1933 


ESQUIREC— Autumn, 1933 


“Look, can you do this?" 


31 


THE TURTLE OF MME. LA CONCIERGE 


A Paris chapter, concerning 
Victor, the Baptist turtle, 
from a novel in preparation 


by GEORGE S. CHAPPELL 


А OU have not heard the story of the 
turtle of Mme. la Concierge, Milor? . . 
nor, you, Vilainguele?“ 

It was Jean-Paul who spoke. His сош- 
rades, Jim Milor and Willingale, shook their 
heads. 

“Bon, I will tell it to you, for it was a 
famous blague. It happened last year, in the 
Spring. Mme. la Concierge had a turtle. 
You know what it is, a turtle? 
two pieces of shell which swim? 

Bon. She kept it in a glass bowl 
in her little boite, therein the court. 
She is a good woman, Mme. la 
Concierge, but bete! ... you have 
no idea... bete comme la lune!" 

He made a round face so ex- 
actly like Mme. la Concierge that 
his listeners burst out laughing. 

“Our bonneislike that,” Jimsaid. 

“Do not interrupt, Milor. It is 
very impolite. 

“You have been badly brought- 
up. Eh bien, Mme. la Concierge 
had a turtle, it is understood? On 
fine days, as the weather ameli- 
orated itself, she used to set the 
bowl in the court. She called the 
turtle Victor after her husband 
who drives an omnibus. The fresh 
air would be good for Victor, she 
said. The sun would tap his little 
system." Fervent love for turtles 
shone from the speaker’s face. 

We all admired Victor greatly 
.. but he was so small! . . . no 
bigger than a sou, a sow which 
swims. I decided to occupy my- 
self with him. The comrade 
Blanchecotte would aid me. V'la 
un type, Blanchecotte!" 

They nodded their agreement. 

We consulted with Madame. 

Victor was beautiful, we said. 

What was his sex? Madame did 

not know. She had examined in 

vain. Her eyes were bad and 

Victor was so small . . . how 

eould she tell? Blanchecotte 

would tell her. He knew all about 

turtles, and he would bring his 
magnifying glass. He brought his magnify- 
ing glass. It was a diminishing glass really, 
with which he examined Victor carefully. 
Yes, he said, Vietor was a boy; Madam had 
guessed right. She was enchanted. 

“But bon-Dieu, he was so small, this Vic- 
tor... he grows not at all. ‘I know,’ she 
said, and yet I feed him, me myself, every 
day. He eats like three, le p'tit gourmand, 
yet he stays as you see him, a little end of 
nothing! “Оп what do you feed him?' we 
asked. “Оп a minee of the red meat! she 
said, “апа some little grains which I buy at 
the bird market.’ 

“Blanchecotte was superb. Quel type, nom 
de Dieu,” for a moment Jean-Paul writhed 
silently . . . ‘Oh Madame,’ he said, ‘a mince 
of the red meat! It is the worst thing you 


32 


could give him. You are going to kill Victor. 
He should have meat but once a week, on 
Friday. Turtles are not Catholies, Madame. 
For the rest, give him only shredded carrots 
and parsley, chopped very fine. He must be 
fed at noon precisely. You will see.” 

lt is the truth,’ I told her. ‘My aunt who 
lives in Montrouge has a turtle as big as a 
platter who lives uniquely on parsley." 


“ Воп et bon, Victor should have his shred- 
ded carrots and his chopped parsley. Every 
day at noon precisely he was served like a 
king. The effect was a marvel. Three days 
after he was larger by half his diameter. 'It 
was a miracle,’ Madame said; ‘Victor grows 
like a tree! See, Messieurs, how strong he is, 
my littlelove! Regard how heswims! Even his 
shell is more brilliant. It shines like a comb.’ 

“A week later it was necessary to buy a 
larger bowl. The turtle of Mme. la Concierge 
began to be talked about. The postman told 
the baker, the baker told the butcher, and 
so on. At all hours the court was frequented. 
Victor was a hero. His longitudinal grandeur 
was now nine inchesand still hegrew. Oneday 
he bit Madame. ‘See,’ she said, showing her 
finger, ‘Victor has bitten me; he is a man.’ 


“The pig of a postman almost spoiled 
everything. 

There is something here, Madame, which 
we do not understand,’ he said. But the 
stupidity of Madame triumphed. The bowl 
was changed for a tub. Victor was now as 
large as the turtle of my aunt who lives in 
Montrouge. 

“Therearelimits, myfriends, even to turtles. 
It was Grenier, whose father 
keeps a restaurant on the Boule- 
vard Raspail, who said, ‘This last 
turtle is the largest I can get. 
Messieurs, la comedia est finita. 
Meanwhile we have all these 
others swimming about in our 
water-tank.’ ‘Butno’ said Blanche- 
cotte, ‘I have a better idea.’ 

“The idea of Blanchecotte was 
magnificent. It took a little time 
of course but it was worth it... 
you shall see. A few days later 
Madame was in tears. ‘He grows 
small, mon low lou,’ she said; 
‘what is happening? Every day 
he eats his shredded carrots and 
his chopped parsley, yet he les- 
sens!’ ‘Do you give him his meat 
on Friday?’ I asked. Madame 
was embarrassed. Last week she 
did not give him his meat on Fri- 
day. She had thought of Father 
André and of her sister, Clemen- 
tine, who is a religieuse. She had 
given Vietora little button of sole, 
garnished with parsley. It was 
fatal, we told her. Vietor was a 
Baptist. Already he had been 
baptised in his native element. 
Baptists live in tanks. She had 
not by any chance had the water 
blessed by Father André? No? 
.. it was fortunate. Turtles died 
in holy-water. As it was, Victor 
wasshrinkingasa matter of princi- 
ple. There was nothing to be done. 

“So it proved, Messieurs. Im- 
agine,if you please,theexeitement 
in the Quarter, the talk, the noise! 
If a turtle who grew by leaps and 
bounds was a sensation, what was 

a turtle who lessened visibly, before the eyes! 
A reporter came. There was a feuilleton in 
the Matin about it, ‘The Turtle of Mme. la 
Concierge,’ which Madame cut out with her 
scissors although she can not read. Soon 
Victor had returned to his original dimen- 
sions. He was agile; he carried himself well. 
‘I never loved you so much, my little cab- 
bage, Madame said, *when you were big.' 
Une belle blague, hein?" 

Willingdale, throwing back his head like a 
hound, barked suddenly. 

“Did she discover what happened?" Jim 
asked. 

“Happily . . . no." Quiet mirth flickered 
across Jean-Paul's aseetie features as he 
added seriously. When one is stupid, my 
friends, it is for a long time...” 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


Seen Со rM 


ALBERT PASTOR AT HOME 


It's hard on the racketeers 
when a big guy called Lefty 


yearns to see his home town 


by DASHIELL HAMMETT 


EFTY comes in and drops his suitcase and 
kicks the door shut and says, "How's 
it, kid?” 

I get up to shake hands with him and say, 
"How's it, Lefty?“ and see he has got a 
goog or black eye that is maybe a week old 
and some new skin growing in alongside his 
jaw. I am too polite to stare at these things. 
I ask, Well, how’d you find the old home 
town?” 

“T just looked behind the railroad depot 
and there it was," he reples jokingly. “1з 
there anything in the bottom drawer?” 

There is a bottle of Scotch in the bottom 
drawer. Lefty says it is not good Scotch be- 
cause he does not want anybody to think 
he can be fooled by stuff that is made in 
this country, but he drinks it in a way that 
would not hurt the feelings of the man that 
made it in any country. 

He unbuttons his vest and says, ‘‘Kid, 
I’m here to tell you it was one swell visit. 
This big city stuff is all oke, but when you 
go back to the place you was born and the 
kids you run around with and your family 
and—Say, kid, I got a kid brother that 
ain’t eighteen yet and you ought to see 
him. Big as me except for weight and a 
couple inches of height and can he throw 
hands. When we put the gloves on down the 
cellar mornings—what a kid, kid! Even 
when I was in shape I would’ve had trouble 
holding him. You ought to see him, kid.” 

I think that it will be all right to refer 
to those things on Lefty’s face now, so I 
say, "I'd like to. Why don’t you bring him 
on? Any boy that can get to your ponem 
like that ought—” 

Lefty puts a hand to the eye that is not in 
as good shape as the other one and says, 
“That ain’t his. That’s—’’ He laughs and 
takes his hand away from his eyes and takes 
a jewelry box out of his coat pocket and 
passes it to me. ““ТаКе a look at that.” 

In the box there is a watch that looks like 
platinum attached to a chain that looks like 
platinum. I think they are. 

Lefty says, Read what's on it." 

On the back of the watch it says T'o Albert 
Pastor (which is the way Lefty writes his 
name when he has to) with the gratitude of 
the members of the Grocers’ Protective Associa- 
tion. 

Grocers' Protective Association," I say 
slowly, “that sounds like—" 

“А racket!” he finishes for me and laughs 
and bangs my desk with his hand. “Са! me 
a liar if you want, but back there in my 
home town, this little burg that ain’t got a 
quarter million people in it—but get me 
right, a swell little burg just the same—they 
got racketeers!“ 

I would not want to call Lefty a liar even 
if I thought he was a liar because he would 
have been heavyweight champion of the 
world before he left the ring to go in busi- 
ness with me if they did not have rules you 
are supposed to fight by in the ring and if 
he did not have a temper which kept him 


34 


forgetting they had rules you were supposed 
to fight by. So I say, "Is that so?" 
Lefty says that is so. He says, “You 


could’ve knocked me over with the District 
Attorney’s office. Big city stuff back there! 
Ain’t that a howl? And my old man being 


shook down along with the rest of them.” 
He reaches for the bottle of Scotch that he 
says is not good. 

“Your old man is a grocer?” I ask. 

“Uh-huh, and he always wanted me to 
follow in his own footsteps," Lefty says, 
“and that’s the real reason he didn’t have no 
use for my fistic career. But that’s all right 
now—now that I retired from the arena. 
He’s a swell old guy when you’re old enough 
to understand him and we got along fine. I 
give him a sedan and you’d ought to see the 
way he carries on about it. You'd think it 
was a Dusenberg.” 

“Was it?" I ask. 

Lefty says, No, but you'd think it was 
a Rolls the way he carries on about it. Well, 
I'm there a couple days and he lets off about 
these bums that'd been lining up the grocers 
round town—join the protective association 
or else, with not many takers for the else. 
It seems the grocer business ain't none too 
good by its own self and paying alimony to 
these mugs don't help it none. The old man's 
kind of worried. 

“Т don’t say nothing to him, but I go off 
by myself and do some thinking and I think, 
what's the matter with me going to see these 
babies and ask them do they want to listen 
to reason or have I got to go to work on 
them? I can’t see nothing wrong with that 
idea. Can you?" 

No, Lefty,“ I say, “I can’t.” 

Well, neither could I," Lefty says, “апа 
so I did and they don't think they want to 
listen to reason. There's a pair of them in 
the protective association office when I come 
in—just about what I expected—they know 
the words, but they ain’t got the motions 
right yet. There was a third one come in 
after awhile, but I’m sweating good by that 
time and handy pieces has been broke off 
some of the furniture, so I make out all 
right, and the old man and some of the 
others get together and buy me this souper 
with some of the dues they’d’ve had to pay 
next month if there’d been any protective 
association left." 

Не puts the watch and chain back in the 
bex and earefully puts the box back in his 
pocket. “Апа how’s your father’s horse?" 
he asks. 

I take the envelope with the money in it 
out of my pocket and give it to him. There's 
your end," I say, "only Caresse’s not in. 
You know—the little fat guy around on 
Third avenue.” 

“I know him," Lefty says. What's the 
matter with him?" 

“Не says he's paid so much for protection 
now that he's got nothing left to protect," 
Isay, “апа he won't stand for the boost." 

Lefty says, So?“ He says, That's the 
way, soon's I get out of town these babies 
think they ean eut up." He stands up and 
buttons his vest. Well,“ he says, “І guess 
ГЇЇ go round to see that baby and ask him 
does he want to listen to reason or have I 
got to go to work on him?" 


ESQUIRE-—Autumn, 1933 


“Yeah, and then after he insulted you, what else did he do?" 


ESQUIR E —Autumn, 1933 


35 


36 


JAN GA 


“Sweetheart, Гое walked him round the block three times, but he 
doesn’t seem to realize—" 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


WHAT A MARRIED MAN SHOULD KNOW 


About doing the marketing and 
getting his own breakfast and 


ducking all trouble in general 


by MONTAGUE GLASS 


AKING 

the United 
States by and 
large,there are 
two kinds of 
married men: 
those who are 
seared of their 
wives and 
those who lie 
about it. I 
have belonged 
to both classes 
for twenty-six 
years, and therefore feel competent to ex- 
press an opinion either way, which is not 
often the case in advisory articles, for if you 
have read such warnings to potential erim- 
inals as You Cant Win, you may have 
noticed that the book was written by a 
prison warden, who had never himself been 
а convict. It is as though a married woman 
were to write this present piece, in which 
ease it would become a manual of behavior 
for married men in and about the house, 
from the viewpoint of a good housekeeper, 
a good mother and a good disciplinarian, 
combined. The only effect would be to hand 
out counsels of perfection, and leave you 
no wiser than you are at present, whereas 
the intention is to show you not Aow to 
behave, but how not to behave, and get 
away with it. 

Let us employ the ease system, as they 
say in law school, and start right in with 
breakfast. A married woman approaches 
the eooking of breakfast in so haphazard a 
style, that the very carelessness of the thing 
almost evokes complaint from the husband. 
Any job so effortless—apparently—is bound 
to be poor, the husband argues to himself, 
and in a moment of unusual courage, he 
may even grumble about the crispness of 
the bacon, the quality of the coffee and the 
perfection of the toast. He doesn’t know 
it, but he is in the position of a police court 
reporter, being pressed into emergency serv- 
ice as a musie eritie and writing a notice 
about the playing of some such virtuosi as 
Mischa Elman and Fritz Kreisler. The 
whole performance looks so easy that he is 
goaded into adverse criticism almost as a 
matter of principle. 

Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Married Man. 
Some morning, your wife will wake up with 
a sick headache, and will ask you to stop off 
at a lunch counter and get your breakfast, 
and then with eggs, bacon, sliced bread, 
coffee and grapefruit in the house, you will 
put into practice a theory you have always 
held that there is no system, no forcefulness 
about the way your wife cooks breakfast. 
You believe that when your wife cooks 
breakfast, she's just improvising a tech- 
nique—that’s all, and that the result is more 
a matter of luck than planning. 

Now listen! While there’s still time, take 
my advice and get your breakfast in а 
lunchroom, because first of all, if you try to 


Tarh uda 


ЕЅФ UIRE-— Autumn, 1933 


соок that breakfast yourself, you'll find out 
that in frying a couple of eggs, it isn't luck 
which keeps the eggs from running up a mar- 
ried woman's sleeve or breaking on the edge 
of the frying pan and messing up the gas 
stove. It's skill and neeromaney combined, 
and you're no magician. Maybe when you 
got married, you promised to endow your 
wife with all your worldly goods, but you 
didn't agree to juggle eggs, did you? 

Then again, there are the toast, the bacon 
and the coffee, all of them subject to that 
law which is ealled the Total Depravity of 
Inanimate Things, and when eggs, bacon, 
coffee and toast are acting in concert, think 
what as a novice, you are up against. Easy, 
is it? Why, all you have to do is to exercise 
the watehfulness of an animal tamer in a 
successful eireus performance and the alert- 
ness of a captain on the bridge of an Atlantic 
liner; and then combine them both with the 
duties of a locomotive engineer on the look- 
out for signals. 

In brief, cooking the standard American 
breakfast means not only the management 
of a couple of slippery eggs, but also keep- 
ing an eye on the coffee so that it will not 
boil over, and at the same time, vigilantly 
supervising the electric toaster, for when it 
comes to destroying the peace and happiness 
of a household, and making a mock of mar- 
riage vows, the behavior of the average 
husband with an electric toaster has nothing 
on his behavior with six dancers of the Van- 
ities of 1935. 

You can get more excuse me hell from 
your wife by toasting two slices of bread in 
an electric toaster than if you stayed up 
until seven in the morning trying to break 


CaN Jat a 


even at a game of quarter limit, and your 
method of stirring up anger may be inno- 
сепсе itself, for after all, what have you 
done to deserve it? Figure it out for your- 
self. You first insert two slices of bread in 
the toaster and then go to the hail door to 
pick up the morning papers, but by the 
time you skim the headlines on the front 
page, the toaster in the dining room will 
have played the usual dirty trick on you. 
That is to say, it will have converted two 
sliees of bread into earbon and then will 
have become a sort of unprotected coke 
oven, blackening the ceiling with smoke and 
making a smell that persists in your house 
for twenty-four hours. 


'Therefore, by all means, go to а lunch 
room and buy your breakfast, because the 
type of toaster they use in lunchrooms is 
automatie, and for all I know to the con- 
trary, there may be improvements waiting 
only on better times, by which when the 
eonflagration starts, the toaster will ring а 
gong, show a red light and consume its own 
smoke. But,“ you protest, “can’t I just 
make myself some coffee and let it go at 
that?" You ean try to make yourself some 
coffee, but with lunchrooms and drug stores 
serving hot coffee with free repeat orders, 
i. e. all the coffee you can drink for five or 
ten cents—if you make your own coffee, 
you are not only neglecting a splendid op- 
portunity to get coffee heart, practically 
gratis, but you are also in for a big disap- 
pointment. You have seen your wife make 
coffee, of course, and she has done it in 
what to you seems such a slipshod fashion 
that you have been astonished at the fra- 
grant result. So you therefore imagine that 
by carefully following the directions printed 
on the can, you will turn out a pot of coffee 
which ас- 
eording to 
the adver- 
tisement will 3 
beofsur- 
passing fla- 


vor and 
aroma. 
You will 


find out, 
however, 
that as far as 
a married 
man is con- 
cerned, the 
advertiser has his adjectives mixed. In- 
stead of surpassing, the advertisement 
ought to have read in your case, surprising 
or even amazing, because even though the 
instructions on the сап give you three or 
four methods of making what the manufac- 
turer in his ignorance of married men, calls 
a delicious and fragrant mixture, all you will 
succeed in producing will be a quart of hot 
fluid, which by any reasonable standard of 
taste, flavor and color, contains in sus- 
pension and not in solution, the scrapings 
of old briar pipes, blended with lamp blaek, 
dried shoe polish and burnt matches. Then 
in ycur ignoranee, you will pour out a eup 
of this mixture, carry it to your wife and 
teil her that nothing is better for a sick 
headache than a eup of strong, black coffee. 
Certain stretehes of the Mississippi River 
are also strong and black, but people who 
live on its banks, generally use aspirin. So 
my advice is to pour the whole potful down 
the sink, give your wife some aspirin and 
get your breakfast in a lunehwagon, because 
any married woman handicapped by a sick 
headache, is more than a conversational 
match for her husband, even though he 
may be in perfect health and a good after- 
dinner speaker to boot. 


Continued on page 80 


27 


——— 


“But momma I told you to tell the groceryman that Га pay him right after the revolution —“ 


ат. 1933 


ESQUIRE— Autun 


MARLIN OFF THE MORRO 
Continued from page 8 


and seen six others pass close to the boat 
during a space of half an hour. 

As an indication of how plentiful they are, 
the official report from the Havana markets 
from the middle of Mareh to the 18th of 
July of this year showed eleven thousand 
small marlin and one hundred and fifty large 
marlin were brought into the market by the 
eommereial fishermen of Santa Cruz del 
Norte, Jaruco, Guanabo, Cojimar, Habana, 
Chorrera, Marianao, Jaimanitas, Baracoa, 
Banes, Mariel and Cabanas. Marlin are 
eaught at Matanzas and Cardenas to the 
east and at Bahia Honda to the west of the 
towns mentioned but those fish are not 
shipped to Havana. The big fish had only 
been running two weeks when this report 
was compiled. 

Fishing with rod and reel from the middle 
of April through the 18th of July of this 
season we caught fifty-two marlin and two 
sailfish. The largest black marlin was 468 
pounds, and 12 feet 8 inches long. The larg- 
est striped marlin was 343 pounds and 10 
feet five inches. The biggest white marlin 
weighed 87 pounds and was 7 feet 8 inches 
in length. 

The white marlin run first in April and 
May, then come the immature striped mar- 
lin with brilliant stripes which fade after the 
fish dies. These are most plentiful in May 
and run into June. Then come the black and 
striped marlin together. The biggest run of 
striped marlin is in July and as they get 
searee the very big black marlin come 
through until into September and later. Just 
before the striped marlin are due to run the 
smaller marlin drop off altogether and it 
seems, except for an occasional school of 
small tuna and bonito, as though the gulf 
stream were empty. There are so many color 
variations, some of them caused by feed, 
others by age, others by the depth of water, 
in these marlin that anyone seeking noto- 
riety for himself by naming new species 
could have a field day along the north Cuba 
coast. For me they are all color and sexual 
variations of the same fish. This is too com- 
plicated a theory to go into a letter. 

The marlin hit a trolled bait in four differ- 
ent ways. First, with hunger, again with 
anger, then simply playfully, last with in- 
difference. Anyone сап hook a hungry fish 
who gives him enough line, doesn’t back- 
lash and sets the hook hard enough. What 
happens then is something else. The main 
thing is to loosen your drag quickly enough 
when he starts to jump and make his run, 
and get the boat after him as he heads out to 
sea. The hungry marlin smashes at the bait 
with bill, shoulders, top fin and tail out. If 
he gets one bait he will turn and charge the 
other. If you pull the bait out of his mouth 
he will come for it again as long as there is 
any bait on the hook. 

The angry fish puzzled us for a long time. 
He would come from below and hit the bait 
with a smash like a bomb exploding in the 
water. But as you slacked line to him he 
had dropped it. Serew down on the drag and 
raee the bait in and he would slam it again 
without taking it. There is no way to hook a 
fish aeting that way except to strike hard as 
he smashes. Put the drag on, speed up the 
boat and sock him as he crashes it. He 
slams the bait to kill it as long as it seems to 
be alive. 

The playful marlin, probably one who has 
fed well, will come behind a bait with his fin 
high, shove his bill elear out of water and 
take the bait lightly between his bill and 
pointed lower jaw. When you turn it loose 
to him he drops it. I am speaking of abso- 

Continued on page 97 


ESQUIB Е — 4utumn, 1933 


Six of seven white 
marlin taken by 
one rod in a single 


Small white marlin showing 
spread of fins 


Tired small marlin 
coming to gaff 


Mako shark, allegedly found only in New 
Zealand and Tahiti, caught off Havana by 
E. H. 


Two white marlin 


Market fishermen taking 300-pound black marlin on board 


I AM DYING, LITTLE EGYPT 


Burlesque, dying for forgetting 
its own business, here receives 
an epitaph and a farewell wreath 


by GILBERT SELDES 


T quaint and almost forgotten experi- 
ment, Prohibition, has two triumphs to 
its credit and they are very much alike: Pro- 
hibition *destroyed" the saloon and Prohi- 
bition “destroyed” burlesque; or in plain 
English, Prohibition sent the saloon 
underground into the speakeasy and 
sent burlesque uptown (artistically 
speaking) into revues. In 1910, if you 
wanted a drink, you went into a dirty 
or clean saloon, according to your taste; 
in 1930, if you wanted a drink you 
went into a pleasant speakeasy. In 
1910, if you wanted nakedness, dirty 
jokes, and roistering fun, produced 
chiefly for the pleasure of drunken 
bums, you went to a burlesque show. 
In 1930 you could find these things only 
in revues patronized by ladies and gen- 
tlemen. Revues took whatever the 
burlesque show had to offer and refined 
only the tricks by which it was put 
over. The short snappy scene with a 
smutty last line and a quick blackout 
is fundamentally the same material as 
the burlesque sketch, only in burlesque 
the producers were neither afraid nor 
ashamed of their dirt, and kept the 
lights on a little longer, as if to make 
sure that the audience did not miss the 
point. 

Drinking is slowly being restored, 
by law, but I am afraid that the art of 
burlesque, as a separate form of enter- 
tainment, is gone forever, although a 
few producers still carry on the busi- 
ness in New York and send a few shows 
out to the country. The reason is that 
burlesque long ago forgot its own busi- 
ness—it stopped being a burlesque of 
something and became only a rowdier 
version of the usual musical show. The 
outstanding burlesque troupe of the 
nineteenth century was that of Lydia 


man) carrying in her black-mitted hands a 
fan and a reticule and concealing a whisky 
flask; Jupiter was played by a woman and 
did a jig; Venus did the сап-сап. This is 
straight burlesque апа a trace of it remained 


THE WHOLE OF BURLEYCUE 


by Paul Trebileock 


to the very end, not on the great purlesque 
wheels, which became very proper and clean, 
but in independent houses like the old Na- 
tional Winter Garden Burlesque in New 
York. I recall a superb burlesque of Antony 
and Cleopatra in which Shakespeare's 
immortal, “I am dying, Egypt, dying" 
was caught up by the chorus as a bit 
of jazz and the death of one of the sol- 
diers was the only instance in my expe- 
rience in which the supremely indecent. 
was at the same time supremely funny. 

But in between these extremes lay 
the routine of burlesque, and, while it 
was this routine which kept it alive, it 
was also this routine which killed it. 
Once seen, it was always remembered; 
it had no novelty. The chorus, bigger, 
bolder, and less beautiful than the 
chorus of a Ziegfeld or Carroll show, 
came out on the stage or runway and 
sang the chorus of a song, usually one 
which had become familiar months 
earlier. Then the girls shed a garment 
and retired. Upon this the great event 
of burlesque began; the star, more per- 
sonable than the chorus, but seldom a 
great beauty, took the stage, sang the 
same chorus, and at the end began to 
fiddle with part of her costume. It 
dropped and she disappeared. Presently 
she returned, did the same thing, and 
the next item of her scanty wardrobe 
fell. So to the end—but, Surprise! 
Surprise! the last time, the singer, des- 
tined to be altogether nude, disap- 
peared into the wings before the shirt 
was completely off, and only the bit 
of silk was flicked before the greedy 
eyes of the customers. This is done half 
a dozen times, with different songs. In 
all my experience in burlesque I recall 
but two variations; in one the star used 
a newspaper instead of a shirt and 


Thompson and her British Blondes; 4famous painter, on something of a postman’s holiday, stripped it column by column, while 


they burlesqued specifically the classic 
type of tragedy which the Booths and 
the Barretts and the Macreadys were 


manages to capture the essence of burlesque with the 
candid camera. Above, the chorus; next below, the short, 
snappy scene. Bottom row, left to right —the low co- 
median and the ingenue; the shimmy dancer; moments 


the audience, rather wittily, yelled for 
her to get a tabloid; and the other, the 
last defense against the censor was not 


presenting on the legitimate stage. SO in the routine of the strippers; the lady who also sings. à garment, but Stop, Go and Detour 
we had cries of delight and of horror Mr. Trebilcock took the pictures from an orchestra seat Signs posted at appropriate places on 
when Minerva appeared (played by a during regular performances in burlesque theaters. the lady’s body. 


Continued on page 110 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


TPA TIS 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


AN IMPRESSION OF BURLESQUE by WITOLD GORDON 


41 


42 


“How Фуа spell polygamy?” 


ESQUIR E—Autumn, 1933 


EXIT AT THE MORGUE 


Being the first of a series of 


Down at the Morgue 
The unwanted dead, 
Named and nameless, 
Are put to bed: 
Laid out neat 
And stretched out nice, 
Cooling their feet 
On a cake of ice. 


Down at the Morgue 
There’s no depression. 
The dead men march 
In a mute procession, 
Day and night 
The dead men march, 
Their mouths shut tight 
And stiff as starch. 


Down at the Morgue 
The dead who died, 
The charity case, 
The suicide, 
The Bowery bum 
With the bashed-in head— 
Here they come 
And go to bed. 


Here they sleep 

With eyes that stare 
Up at the ceiling 

In the are lamps’ glare: 
The gangster back 

From a ride 
White and black 

Side by side. 


This poor punk, 

Sick of life, 
Slit his throat 

With a butcher knife; 
This big rube 

Laughed at death 
With a tube 

Between his teeth. 


Sampled by fishes 

Swollen with water, 
Salt-pitted, blue-bellied, 

In bumps the bloater 
Nudging the wharf-piles 

With orange-peel bottles, 
Crates, old corsets 

And baby rattles. 


The river police 
Bring him to book, 
Fishing the bloater 
With a boat-hook: 
Garbage is fragrant 
Against these blown guts 
Hoist the blue vagrant 
Away from the rats. 


Dead men in barrels, 
Dead men in sacks 
Trussed up with wire 
Knees at their necks, 
Punctured with icepicks, 
Pumped full of lead— 
Torsos and scarecrows 
Dead—dead—dead. 


Never they move, 
Never they mutter; 
The peddler found 
Flat in the gutter, 
The whore they find 
Stiff with coke, 
The homeless blind 
With his bottle of Smoke. 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


poems. that sound the note 
of New York in a minor key 


Here they sleep, 
Gentile and Jew, 

Dead-born infants 
From Bellevue; 

The city's sweeping, 
Numbered, unknown, 

Unwept, unweeping 
And still as stone. 


'The Morgue looks down 

On a river muddy 
With oil as blue 

As a dead man's body; 
Down in the cellar 

А shipment of dead, 
Killed and killer, 

Are ticketed. 


What is hunger, 
'Thirst to them? 
Life has done 
Its worst to them: 
'They don't holler, 
They can't crab, 
Sound asleep 
On a marble slab. 


One old woman 
Had come from Texas 
To look at her son 
Chopped up with axes; 
They tried every ruse 
They wanted to spare her 
But it was no use, 


She said it wouldn’t scare her. 


“How shall I dread 

The child I nursed? 
If he’s dead he’s dead, 

And ГЇЇ know tke worst.” 
They pulled off the sheet 

From that faceless horror 
She died on her feet 2 

It was finished for her. 


The House of Death 
Is painted red; 
You breathe the breath 
Of the breathless dead: 
The strange stale stink 
Of the Mortuary 
The dead piled up 
For a trip on the ferry. 


Burial Bay— 

A fine fat yield, 
A bumper crop 

For Potter’s Field: 
The derelict dead 

In a burlap sheet, 
Head to head, 

Feet to feet. 


Give them a number 
And let them sleep 

A sheeted slumber 
That will keep: 

Sew them tight, 
Heave with heft: 
Left—right— 
Right—left. 


by JOSEPH AUSLANDER 


The city’s dead 
The city buries: 
They pile them up 
On special ferries. 
Whether it’s hot, 
Whether it’s cold, 
The dead men rot 
As they are told. 


Through a corridor 
Down a ramp 
The stretcher-bearers 
Tramp—tramp; 
The boat is blunt 
And squat and black; 
The dead in front, 
The dead in back. 


Gangplank up, 
Shove away: 
It’s hot as hell? 
The hell you say! 
It’s drizzling rain, 
It’s slashing sleet: 
They don’t complain 
Of cold, of heat. 


Hell Gate looms, 
The boat goes slow; 
Then Hart’s Island 
Flat and low: 
Snow like lead, 
Unload the files, 
Dump the dead 
In two piles. 


If you are 
A Catholic— 
A scapular 
Will do the trick— 
You get a priest 
And a holier pit . . . 
(You'll rise like yeast 
From the bottom of it.) 


If you're not, 

God save your soul: 
They dig a devil 

Of a hole; 
The convicts smell 


As they dig your floor . . 


What the hell 
Are convicts for! 


Convicts do 
All the dirt; 

They’re soaked through 
Skin and shirt: 

Though it’s blowing 
Tons of snow 

The dead are going 
Down below. 


Forty feet long, 
Sixteen feet wide, 
Eight feet deep, 
And packed inside— 
Packed to the top 
Like rows of fish: 
As fine a crop 
As you could wish. 


One hundred and fifty 
To each hole: 
Shovel away 
And damn your soul! 
Six thousand clear— 
But the year is young, 
Young is the year 
In dead men’s dung. 


Stretched out on a cross 

Words like cold flame: 
“He calls all who 

Are His by name.” 
By number instead 

He calls and calls... 
Shovel the dead 

Down to their stalls. 


Like sacks of flour 
The dead men flop; 

The wet snow sticks 
To the bumper crop; 

The wet snow sticks 


And stings your eyes 


The Catholics 
Are in Paradise. 


The others sleep 
Just as well 
Next door to Heaven, 
Next door to Hell. 
Brush your clothes 
And run to cover; 
Blow your nose, 
The show is over. 


Wednesdays, Saturdays, 
Twice a week, 

The dead men play 
Hide and Seek. 

Never completed, 
The same jest 

To be repeated 
By request. 


Down at the Morgue 
The unwanted dead 
Swept from the streets 
Are put to bed: 
Waiting their turn, 
Biding their time, 
Ready to burn 
In a bed of lime. 


Down at the Morgue 
Laid out neat, 
Stretched on the ice, 
Cooling their feet, 
Sleeping as well 
As ever Caesar 
Or Jezebel 
Or Nebuchadnezzar. 


Instead of kingdoms 
Leaving keys; 
Pencils instead 
Of dynasties; 
Instead of dollars 
And monuments 
A few soiled collars, 
A few cents. 


43 


INVITATION TO DANGER 


An old man exhorts a youngster 
to lead the life courageous, 


in this powerful short story 


by MANUEL KOMROFF 


* AND you?" he asked. “Ноу do you wel- 
come danger?" 

Of course, I had to admit that I was only 
a school-teacher and that most of my life 
was spent in the routine of the school- 
room. Blackboard chalk wasin my lungs and 
there were always the boys' papers to сог- 
reet and the next day's lessons to prepare. 
“But,” I added quickly, it is not for long. 
In a few years now I will be retired on a 
small pension and then I will live in the 
country and have a garden and...” 

“Flowers!” he said. 

Well, yes, and other things too. But that 
is hardly what I would recommend to you, 
or to anyone like yourself just starting out 
in life. You are young. I would make a 
guess and say you were not yet twenty. 
And I would hardly call growing flowers 
a dangerous adventure. No, hardly!" 

“Funny thing," he said, “І was thinking 
of flowers just this morning. Don't know 
how they eame into my mind but they did. 
They used to make me laugh and now I 
kind of wonder about them." He gazed 
blankly before him. 

I continued in the same vein; exaetly as 
I had begun only a few minutes before, 
when the young fellow, a tota! stranger to 
me, came into the restaurant and took a 
seat at my table. I saw him enter, look 
about for a suitable place and as there were 
no small tables vaeant he decided that I 
looked safe enough. I thought he was a bit 
timid but knowing boys as I do, I hastened 
to assure him that I was quite alone and 
glad to have his fellowship. 

He smiled at the word "fellowship." It 
was а bit high-brow and not a word that 
he would naturally use. He placed his hat 
on the rack and sat down. He fingered the 
menu nervously and did not know what to 
eat. But when the food was brought he 
devoured it quickly. This caused me to 
remark that he must have been pretty 
hungry. 

Ves,“ he said smiling. 
since last night.“ 

“How is that?" 

“Well, I didn't think of it." 

“I know just how that is. Food is not 
very important to a young fellow. When a 
chap is hungry he will eat and anything at 
all seems to answer the bill. Yes, I know." 
I did not say everything that was in my 
mind. He was quite pale and I eould see 
he had been dissipating. He has been in a 
pool-parlor or playing eards all night or he 
has a girl fifty miles away and spent a good 
part of the night hitching rides. He looked 
quite eapable of such folly. His eyes were 
blue and his skin was white, clean as a 
child's. I thought there was a weakness 
in his nature. And that is what started 
me off. 

“You know," I said smiling. Behind my 
back the boys eall me a ‘harmless duffer.’ 
They say I’m ‘easy’ because I do not сате 
much about discipline. But really, I tell 


“My first grub 


41 


them the most daring things. I want my 
boys to be courageous. I want them to 
have their own convictions and the courage 
to stand by them. I try to make them think 
for themselves and then I ask them to live 
by what they think. I tell them that life is 
not a monotonous hum-drum thing and 
that it could be made into something really 
worth while. That there should be an exeite- 
ment to living; it should have a pulse that 
beats feverishly, and a drive... yes, all that 
and more. And there is one way to get the 
fullness out of life and that is to be coura- 
geous, daring and even court danger! It was 
an Ameriean philosopher who first presented 
the belief that we would live better if we 
lived more dangerously.” 

“And when you are dead, where do you 
ко?” he asked suddenly. 

This was a question I hardly expected 
and I did not think it had very much bear- 
ing on what I was saying. Evidently he had 
misunderstood. 

Take yourself for instance. Now I don’t 
know what you do or anything about you. 
But you are young and in good health. 
Why should a fellow hang around a pool- 
room or some such place listening to cheap 
talk and learning cheap tricks? Any weak 
fool could do that. But no. If I were 
young...” 

“All right captain, what would you do?” 

“Well, I would hop a boat and see a bit 
of the world. I would work my way and 


perhaps stop off in China or India or Africa 
or wherever we docked. I would see a little 


of foreign lands and learn the ways of the 
natives. I would try and join a party. Any 
party. If I ran into some engineers I would 
go along and we wou'd prospect; or I would 
join a party to go to Tibet and see if Buddist 
priests could really do magie feats or if it 
was all hokus-pokus. And if it was all fake 
I would come back quick and tell the world 
about it. Or I would try to get up a party 
of my own and tack down those African 
slave-traders who make night raids on peace- 
ful villages and take black boys and girls to 
sell for long terms of labor. I would eer- 
tainly put my hooks into those fellows. And 
I would have plenty of guns with me and 
lots of ammunition and by golly we would 
open fire on them without mercy!" I spoke 
these words with enthusiasm. 

He smiled. 

"Well," I concluded. That is what I 
mean by living with excitement—with eour- 
age." 

“Апа so you think I ought to hop a boat?" 

“Yes. Oratrainor..." 

Plane?“ 

Ves anything!“ 

“Well, I was thinking about a plane my- 
self," he said. "In fact I went out to the 
air-port this morning but I did not like the 
looks of the field." 

“Yes, I understand. I am timid myself; 
and the first time I went up my heart was 
in my throat. But you get over it. That `s 
just the kind of thing a young fellow should 
do.” 

“All right captain. Thanks for the advice.“ 

“T did not mean to give you advice. For- 
give me if it sounded like that. It’s my 
school-room manner. That is how I talk to 
my boys and I ean tell just what is going on 
in their minds. I сап say without vanity 
that I really understand...” 

Just then two men came into the res- 
taurant. They went straight to our table 
and stood behind his chair. 

He knew they were behind him and he 
kept looking at me. The big heavy man, 
with a red beefy face, turned the youth’s 
head up and had a good look at him. 

“You're a handsome kid,“ he said, but 
we want you for murder!“ 

The youth did not reply. He stood up 
and held out his hands. 

“Put the bracelets on him," said the big 
detective to his companion. The handeuffs 
were snapped on. 

“I’m glad it's over," said the young fel- 
low. *Let's go!" 

“Which one of these is your hat?" the 
big fel'ow asked. 

“The hell with the hat! I won't need it." 

And with these words thev marched out. 

When the excitement died down, tke 
waiter eame forward and wanted to kncw 
who was going to pay his check. I said I 
would. 

Now the reason why I tell you all this is 
that you should know that, besides being a 
*harmless duffer, I am also a damn fool. 


ES QUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


ESQUII E—Autumn, 1923 


THE CELLOPHANE GOWN by GILBERT SEEHAUSEN 


Chicago in the summer of the Century of Progress . . . a confused im- 
pression of gaiety and boob-baiting . . . of judges declaiming against 
“those who would put pants оп a horse" ... of other judges insisting 
upon “if not pants, then at least something" . .. of Bible-belt 
citizens coming to gasp—and gape . . . and returning, after a wondering 
examination. of the multitudinous exhibits of science and the arts, 
with only this one memory sharp and clear: nudity and high buildings. 


“Ach, does beer make you sleepy?” 


ES 


Aerea: ia a ПРСТЕНИ 


DRYPOINT BY JOHN GROTH 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


THERE’S NO REPEALING TASTES 


The boys will blink at many a 
wine card, but gin will always 
be a lonely girl’s best friend 


by FREDERICK VAN 


N THE cellar of the 

Hotel du Beaune— 
which is the cellar in 
the hotel of the fair 
province of Burgundy 
—they tell this story in 
the language of rolling 
eyes, raised shoulders 
and waving hands. 

It seems that some 
three summers ago a 
celebrated connoisseur of vintages, a peer- 
less local gentleman named Marcel Duprez, 
fell victim of an automobile accident while 
on his way to attend the XX XVII Congress 
of Vineyardists of France in the city of 
Dijon. Removed to a nearby country house 
in a state of coma, he was recognized by his 
host, a fellow member of the Beaune Cham- 
ber of Commerce, placed on a Louis XVI 
couch in the drawing room and accorded 
honors usually reserved for the next of kin. 
A dust-covered bottle was brought from the 
cellar and a tablespoon of the precious liquid 
poured down the parched throat of Mon- 
sieur Duprez through his black lips. There 
was a long, tense wait. The proprietor of the 
country house,the village physician and the 
gray-haired overseer of the cellar stood 
around the couch with their heads bowed. 
Then—you should hear them describe this 
particular phase of the story in the Hotel du 
Beaune—the eyes of the dying man half 
opened and a faint color came into his hag- 
gard cheeks. He moistened his lips. He 
seemed to be wishing to say something. The 
proprietor of the country house, the village 
physician and the gray-haired overseer of 
the cellar pressed forward and cupped their 
ears. They waited some more and then they 
heard the muffled sounds of a choking voice. 

“Chambertin 1878," whispered Monsieur 
Duprez and passed away. . . . It was Cham- 
bertin 1878. 

Let us change the locale of this heart- 
breaking story. Let us suppose that a dis- 
tinguished New Yorker, a valuable client of 
the joy-dispensaries in the East Fifties, gets 
his skull fractured while on the way to spend 
a week-end at the shrine of a Government 
Liquor Store in Montreal. Let us further 
imagine that he is fortunate enough to be 
removed to one of those nice country houses 
between Syracuse and Buffalo where they 
still have a bottle or two of “pre-war stuff” 
buried behind the five-foot-shelf of Dr. 
Elliott’s classies. 

Now then, what will the last words of our 
dying New Yorker be? 
Will he recognize the 
smooth touch of the 
noble wine? Will his 
palate be brought back 
to life and appreciation 
by that shade of differ- 
ence in the taste which 
makes each vintage of 
a “grand vin” as easy 
to detect as it is easy 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


to tell a Broadway cop even if he is wearing 
the blue pullover and the gay checkered 
knickers of the Prince of Wales? The answer 
is “по.” Here is one thousand dollars in 
hoarded gold against one unautographed 
photograph of Herbert Hoover's birthplace 
in West Branch, Iowa, that on opening his 
eyes our dying New Yorker would spit the 
tablespoonful of Chambertin 1878 out of his 
bleeding mouth and say audibly and resent- 
fully: 

Haven't you got some real booze, with a 
real kick?” 

And our dying New Yorker will not be to 
blame. For the last thirteen years of his life 
he was swallowing booze, booze and booze. 
No matter what the labels on the bottles 
said and no matter who had recommended 
his bootlegger to him—be it even the House 
Committee of the Union Club—he never 
tasted even a single drop of honest-to-good- 
ness Veuve Cliquot, virginal Benedietine or 
staunch Burgundy since the Year of Our 
Lord Andrew Volstead 1920. And what little 
sensitivity his hard-bitten palate could have 
preserved since the pre-prohibition days had 
been dissolved long ere this in the flood of 
gin-riekies, gin-fizzes, martinis, manhattans 
and old-fashioneds. 

Tip your hat to the memory of our dis- 
tinguished New Yorker and consider the 
pathetic ease of his survivors, the Tony’s 
alumni and graduates, 1920— 1933, who 
are about to hear Secretary Hull announce 
in solemn intonations of his Tennessee-bred 
voice that the thirty-sixth State having duly 
registered itssovereign, Jim Farley-prompted 
will, the Eighteenth Amendment to the Con- 
stitution of the U. S. A. is hereby removed to 
the Smithsonian Institute and placed in the 
room reserved for the eggs of ichtiosauri. 

After the Repeal what? 

“Garcon, une bouteille de Chateau- 
Laffitte 1907 bien chambrée” or “Топу, 
shake another Dry Martini and for General 
Johnson’s sake don’t spare your gin now 
that it's real." It takes something less than 
Raymond Moley’s brains to solve this prob- 
lem. For one thing, it is clear and obvious 
that Tony does not contemplate a retire- 
ment, only the suppression of the chain-lock 
on his door. And why should he retire? 
Didn’t he sacrifice the better part of his life 
teaching the growing generations of clean- 
eut Americans how to distinguish between 
Gilbey’s Dry Gin made in their own bath- 
tubs and Gilbey’s Dry Gin made in a publie 
bath-tub in Newark, №. J.? 

For another thing—and we have the testi- 
mony of the barkeepers on the transatlantic 
liners to back us—a stomach accustomed to 
the walloping caresses of rye, scotch and gin 
refuses to be soothed by the half-hearted 
petting technique of champagne, cordials, 
table-wines and the other beverages con- 
taining not more than 18% of alcohol. It is 
a well known fact that beginning with the 
second day of an eastward crossing, right 
after the first thrill of seeing a legitimate and 


RYN 


genuine card of wines 
dies down, the major- 
ity of passengers switch 
to the hard stuff and 
stay switched until the 
very end of their Euro- 
pean voyage. It is a 
less known but equally 
proven fact that even 
those supposedly so- 
phistieated travelers 
who never stop gabbing about Chablis Supe- 
rieur, Chateau-Latour and Mouton-Roths- 
child while at home suddenly develop an 
irresistible béguin for a shot of good old 
Golden Wedding the moment they find 
themselves in close proximity to the vine- 
yards of their winter dreams. 

This is as it should be. A generation 
brought up on the eurves of Jean Harlow 
cannot be expeeted to admire the smile of 
Mona Lisa. A generation accustomed to the 
one-hundred-and-one-gun salute of a battery 
of cocktails before dinner will be wasting its 
money and effort on wading through that 
galaxy of fine vintages which should aecom- 
pany a well-ordained, civilized meal. Even 
under the beneficial regime of the NRA the 
last word in the matters of digestion belongs 
to chemistry. And while, according to chem- 
istry, a considerable sum of pleasant uncer- 
tainty in the legs and comfortable warmth 
in and around the stomach can be derived 
from combining the pale-yellow sharpness 
of frozen white wine with the blood-ruby 
smoothness of a red wine heated to the tem- 
perature of the room, provided both are put 
to bed by the firm but gentle hand of an 
elderly brandy, the self-same chemistry 
teaches us that— 

Six cocktails (imbibed between 7 p. m. 
and 8 p.m.) + one pint of Chablis Village 
1919 (with the fish course) + one pint of 
Chambertin 1923 (with the entrée) + one 
pint of Paul Roger Brut Superieur 1921 
(with the dessert) + one glassful of Cognac 
Napoleon 1809 (with the coffee) = one hur- 
ried trip to the bathroom. 

Not that chemistry or I fail to realize that 
gin always has been and always will be a 
lonely girl’s best friend and that rye whiskey 
always has been and always will be arejected 
suitor’s tried and trusted standby. It simply 
so happens that hard liquors do not mix with 
their softer colleagues and that of all the fine 
arts the Art of Drinking is the most difficult 
one to master. Which—with the kind per- 
mission of the copyright owners in the Res- 
taurant Tourd’Argent, ex 
Quai de Tourelles, 
Paris—reminds me of 
another, a rather tragie 
story. Nobody gets his 
or her skull fraetured 
this time but the late 
King Edward VII of 
England is being cen- 
sured, censured publicly 
and severely. The action 


E= 
Continued on page 104 


47 


* Why Mister Pettigrew! You bite your finger nails" 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


PUBLICITY HY CUTTLEBONE 


Big and common. and nothing 


like a racehorse. Cuttlebone 


jumped like he sat on tacks 


by DAVID HOADLEY MUNROE 


HE only time I think maybe I got no 

brains is when I look at Slim Johnson, 
and remember it was me picked him as a 
partner. He’s a tall thin guy with big feet 
and two eyes that ain’t twins, and he’s one 
of these publicity hounds who thinks every- 
thing’s news, even himself, and things that 
didn’t happen, and wasn’t ever going to. 
He spends all his time studying out ways to 
make people look at him, and to get famous, 
only his plans always work out different 
from the way he thought. 

Like that time over in Jersey, when he 
got all steamed up about our old horse 
Cuttlebone, and wanted to run him in that 
amateur hunt steeplechase. That was a 
dumb idea, even for Slim. Cuttlebone is a 
big common horse that can jump, and that’s 
won us plenty show jumping money, but 
he ain’t nothing like a racehorse. He be- 
longed to three of us in partnership—Slim, 
and me, and Jimmy Taylor, a little guy 
that did the riding, and that ain’t said a 
whole sentence out loud since last March, 
when he told Slim to go to hell one day 
after breakfast. So when Slim gets this 
brain storm, he can't do nothing without 
asking us, and he comes round to me, and 
starts explaining about it. 

“Slim,” I says pretty soon, “‘there’s some- 
thing wonderful about a guy that ean think 
up so many ideas that's no good! Go sell 
your flowers somewhere else." 

You see, there was plenty reasons against 
it. Aside from us not having a chance, it 
costs fifty bucks to enter that race, and we 


only got fifty-one, not to speak of a sheriff 
that's after us for some bills Slim forgot to 
pay last time we was rich. 

“Fifty bucks for a race we got no chance 
in?" I says. "What for? Them thorough- 
breds is all fast, and Cuttlebone is slower 
than the jaekass you keep making me 
think of.” 

Maybe,“ says Slim. But he don't ever 
get tired, even if he ain't racing fit. He 
could run to California, that horse could, or 
to Alaska." 

"Yeah, but this race ain't to California, 
nor yet to Alaska," I comes back. ‘‘This 
race is four miles over big timber fences, 
and it's so important they got two thou- 
sand bucks as a prize! We'd look swell put- 
ting the old goat in that! You know we got 
no chance of winning." 

“Win?” says Slim. Win? Who said any- 
thing about winning? Not me, I didn't! 
Did you hear me say anything about win- 
ning? Sure you didn’t—and that's just it!“ 

"He'd come in a mile behind," Is i 

“A mile behind?" Slim waves his arms 
like a loony. “А mile behind? If he does, 
there’ll be something awful funny, and ГЇЇ 
know all the other jockeys is crooks! Say, 
if he don’t come in at least two miles behind, 
I'm going to lodge an objection, that's what 
I'm going to do!" 

Right then I decides he's nuts, and tries 
distraeting his mind. 

"Look there, Slim!’ I says. “See that 
pretty looking bird? Ain't he swell? Let's 
go walking and look at him." 


"My God!" says Slim, and waggles his 
little head at me. ‘‘He’s talking about the 
birdies! Say, are you batty? No? Well, 
quit talking then and listen . . . You got no 
publicity sense, Bill, no vision—that's why 
you're so dumb! Of course I don't figure 
to win this race. But who wants to win it? 
Who wants to win any race? Horses win 
races every day—there ain't no news to a 
horse winning a race. But losing a race, 
losing a race real bad, so bad it's funny— 
how about that? That's news, ain't it? You 
bet that don't happen every day! And listen 
—they got a special rule in this race. If a 
horse comes in more than fifteen minutes 
after the winner, he gets disqualified, see? 
The winner'll make it in about ten minutes, 
at the most—so that gives Cuttlebone 
twenty-five minutes to get round. Do you 
get it, Bill, do you get it?“ 

I get it. I got how we'd look like seven 
different kinds of ja ses if we put a 
common horse in a race like that. 

"How do you figure that gives us any 
publicity?” I asks. *Cuttlebone'll be so far 
behind folks'll forget he started." 

Slim puts his face down in his hands. 
“For five years, Bill," he says, with a kind 
of moan, for five years I been teaching 
you—and still you got no vision! Fix your 
eyes shut tight, like I got mine, and think. 
There’s the racetrack. The fast horses has 
finished. The crowd is through looking at 
'em. Suddenly someone remembers Cuttle- 
bone. Where is he? There he is, rolling 
along best he ean! He's got twenty-five 

Continued on page 77 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


WOODSCULPTURE FOR ESQUIRE BY CARL HALLSTHAMMAR 


49 


PRODIGAL SON OF PARIS 


A study of contrasts in the 
life of Jules Pascin to aid 
an understanding of his art 


by 


Т is now three years since he opened his 
veins in that studio in the Pigalle. It was 
in the summer time, and I was painting in à 
suburb near Paris. The news unnerved me 
completely. There was nothing I could do 
for him; he was gone; yet I returned to Paris 
immediately. For was I not his friend? He 
had many friends, I realized rather suddenly, 
as I hurried back to town, and to them, as 
to me at that moment, the news must have 
been an intensely personal pain—almost an 
affront. Were they not thinking, as I know I 
must have felt at least momentarily, “Не 
need not have done that—he should not 
have done that—he had me for friend.” 

Perhaps I did not consciously feel that 
thought exactly as I have now expressed it. 
It is hard to be honestly accurate about one’s 
thoughts of a moment, when that moment 
has receded three years in time. But I must 
have thought it, although it is only now that 
I put the thought in words. But this I do 
remember definitely, from that moment 
when word of his going eame to me: I thought 
there were a lot of us, I suppose, who counted 
him as one of our closest and dearest friends 
—-his friendship was important to us, a thing 
of very great importance indeed, yet what 
could it have been to him? It could not have 
been much, for he has done this. And then, 
as I started back to Paris, I realized that I 
must have known, always, something about 
him that occurred to me only now at the 
moment when his life had run out of his 
veins: He was gay when he was with us—he 
was the gay pessimist, the reckless flippant 
prodigal, but alone he was unbearable to 
himself. 

And then, in death, he suddenly meant 
more to me, as an artist, than he had meant, 
living, as a friend. 

We buried him, we who were his friends 
arranged his funeral. But it was like him to 
have bought the grave beforehand—it was 
as like him as it would have been unlike the 
average Montparnassian. All the artists, 
enemies and friends, erowded Boulevard 
Pigalle. The government sent an official rep- 
resentative and a large funeral wreath. We 
were a tremendous crowd, when we left him 
there in the San Juan cemetery, but large as 
the crowd was I remember thinking that it 
would have been larger still had it numbered 
all those for whom he had ever paid the bills 
in the cafes of the Montmartre. 

And all that was three years ago. It seems 
very odd to be talking about it now. But I 
would not have talked about it sooner. And 
I mention it now only because in his death 
there was a key to his art. Not that a key 
had to be supplied—he was a painter for 
painters—but it afforded something in the 
way of explanation that would have been 
lacking otherwise. 

The language of great painting is not liter- 
ature and it is very hard to attempt to trans- 
late it into words. Here and there, bit by 
bit, a little violet, a little pink, a spot of blue, 
rose or any other color which the artist sees 


50 


SAM OSTROWSKY 


and feels through his models, he transfers 
from the palette to the canvas, producing 
certain nuances and color and line harmo- 
nies. A composer of music sets sounds into 
harmonies that mirror his own temperamen- 
tal interpretation of nature. In like manner, 
Pascin used colors, instead of sounds. A bit 
of a grey stocking, a little pink dress, an 
orange ribbon, a pale face of a lonely girl of 
the Montmartre or Montparnasse, the beau- 
tiful form of her figure—someone, I forgot 
who, said that the body of a woman was 
Pascin’s universe—such was the food that 
nourished his art. 

But first let me tell you something of his 
life, as a background to the manner of his 
death, before I essay further to explain 
his art. 

His was not, by any means, the usual 
stereotyped story of privation and struggle 
and failure to obtain recognition. Both 
money and fame came early. Nor had either 
run out at the time he chose for death. It is 
true, his struggle for a livelihood was at 
times very severe—and those are the times 
that I remember most clearly. But success 
сате to him as a very young man. 

From Vienna, where he had began his art 
studies—he was born in Bulgaria in a hum- 
ble Jewish family—he went to Berlin where 
he immediately attracted attention by his 
highly individual caricatures, published in 
"Simplieissimus," and by some unusual 
book illustrations. Thus, although he came 
to Paris at the age of twenty, he came not 
like the rest, with a hard apprenticeship 
ahead of him, but as a man of some standing, 
a figure of some elegance. This was in 1905, 
when a little money went a long way, any- 
where, and espe- 4 
eially in the Latin 
Quarter which 
was then, more 
than now, still a 
quarter and still 
Latin. 

But the speed 
with whieh money 
eame to Pascin 
was always just 
slightly exceeded 
by the speed with 
whieh he could 
dispose of it. His 
friends were all 
who happened to 
be within shout- 
ing range when 
he headed for a 
eafe. Seated, he 
would order lav- 
ishly for every- 
body. Yet his 
clothes were no 
better than those 
of the average 
denizen of the dis- 
trict, which means 
that they were 


pretty bad, because the artists of the quar- 
ter, at that time, expressed themselves on 
canvas in their studios and not in cloth on 
their backs. And his studio was as meagerly 
furnished and as bare as anybody’s. That 
was the first of the contrasts; he expressed 
himself in contrasts, always. 

The time of his arrival in Paris was the 
period when discussions of the great painter 
Paul Cezanne were running high at the cafe 
tables of the Montparnasse, for Cezanne was 
the first painter to realize the true concep- 
tion of painting for painting’s sake, being a 
painter for painters and not for the object of 
picture-making. Pascin was talented enough 
—talent was the word for him, based on his 
achievements up to that date, for he had not 
yet grown to the stature required for the 
mantle of genius—to realize this, and he im- 
mediately fell under the Cezanne influence. 
Renoir also influenced him with his very 
illuminative and tender color conceptions. 
Since Pascin himself was a great colorist and 
highly sensitive to color, he could not help 
but be influenced by these two great men, 
and he could not have had better formative 
influences. 

I have never approved of that method of 
criticism which consists of hacking an art- 
ist's work up into “‘periods’’—it has always 
seemed to me to be closely akin to vivisec- 
tion—but if it were to be applied to Pascin, 
you could speak of his first period as being 
plus Cezanne and minus Renoir; his second 
period, as plus Renoir and minus Cezanne; 
his third period as minus Renoir and Ce- 
zanne and plus Pasein. 

It was between his first and second peri- 
ods,” then, that Pascin left Paris for New 

York. His whole 
life was some- 
thing of a tour 
with stopovers. 
Viddin (Bulgaria) 
to Vienna to Ber- 
lin to Paris to 
New York—the 
fever for travel 
was not coming 
out in him, it was 
merely remain- 
ing. Ithad always 
been there. Yet 
he never, after 
those first Paris 
days, seemed so 
essentially Pari- 
sian as when he 
was away from 
Paris. 

In New York, 
as in Berlin be- 
fore, he ‘‘went 
commercial." His 
own creative 
work suffered, as 
he occupied his 
time at illustra- 
tion. By chance 

Continued on page 89 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


OIL PAINTING BY JULES PASCIN COLLECTION DAVID A. SMART, CHICAGO 


ES Q UIR E—Autumn, 1933 


52 


MONOTYPE BY JOHN GROTH 


Darling, that’s a lie, you know I never look at another woman" 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


IN 


THE 


BOIS 


Although Sheryl had been beastly 
and though Nally had been banal. 
reunion was romantie in the Bois 


by DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS, JR. 


[ was early Autumn in the Bois, during 
that lazy period in the afternoon when 
nursemaids congregate to gossip and the 
children stop playing long enough to eat 
their bread and chocolate. 

Earlier in the day a coquettish Autumn 
shower had dampened the fallen leaves and 
an indecisive breeze had seattered them in- 
diseriminately over the myriad pathways 
and wide stretches of grass that separated 
rows of stately, fading ehestnut trees. 

Nally (we shall not give him a last name; 
he was that kind of a chap) walked slowly 
along the path, regardless of where it took 
him. A life of regulation had never appealed 
to him, so if a path bent inconveniently out 
of his way, he would ignore it completely. 
Such was the ease at this moment—he was 
erossing a pateh of green. It was, in a few 
more steps, to lead him on to a gravel walk. 

Nally had no partieular destination in 
mind, so the realization did not occur to him 
that he had, for more than an hour, been 
walking in ever-increasing circles. For a 
moment he thought that to sit down would 
be enjoyable, but there was no bench nearby 
and the damp ground might ruin the crease 
in his well-eut trousers, so without further 
thought, he kept on. 

As he walked, his hands clasped behind 
his baek, he wondered if, generally speaking, 
he resembled Napoleon. Of course he was 
taller, handsomer and not quite as intense, 
but he was alone against the world; he was a 
foreigner in Paris, and he was walking in the 
Bois—with his hands clasped behind his 
back. The added and incongruous trifle of a 
battered umbrella did not in the least dis- 
turb his comparison. 

Nally began to worry about himself. He 
was rich, American and thirty. Beyond that, 
life had little to offer. He was bored. Maybe, 
he thought, if it were Spring instead of 
Autumn, he would feel differently. In 
Autumn things began to grow old and die, 
while in Spring, it is said, life is re-born. 

He stopped to parallel his life with the 
miniature whirlwind at his feet. Brown 
erackling leaves that had resigned them- 
selves to their fate and had settled on the 
walk, only to be trampled on and die, were 
suddenly raised into the air and sent flying 
hysterically around and around. When, at 
last, they had fallen again to earth, Nally 
was jarred from his philosophic reflections by 
having a familiar feminine voice call his name. 

“Nally!” it exclaimed; and that was all. 

He was quite positive that he was awake, 
but the shock made him suspect that per- 
haps he was asleep. Only one person in the 
world had such a voice and such a particular 
intonation in addressing him. He turned 
quickly. Sheryl!“ he cried. 

When taken completely by surprise, hu- 
man beings are seldom given to clever con- 
versation. Nally followed the rule rather 
than the exception. 

“What are you doing here?" he said, in а 
voice that betrayed at once his interest and 


ESQUIR Е — Autumn, 1933 


confusion. 

“Ts the Bois restricted now?” Sheryl had 
always been trenchant. 

“T was only asking a question.” Nally had 
always been apologetic—with Sheryl. 

'm walking in the Bois." 

Nally smiled at her. Having fun?“ 

“Веѕќайе fun." Sheryl also smiled, then 
added, I'm awfully glad to see you.” 

“Thanks, so am I—to see you, I mean.” 

And with that, they fell in step and com- 
menced walking very slowly together. 

Nally took a cigarette case from a pocket 
of his Anderson and Sheppard coat, and 
opening it, offered it to Sheryl. She took 
one and they stopped long enough for Nally 
to flick at his lighter. It worked. 

They walked on, Sheryl puffing appre- 
ciatively, Nally silent. 

Finally Sheryl spoke. ‘“Tastes like home. 
Ihate those awful French cigarettes. They’re 
so black and dirty looking, aren't they?" 

“Yes,” said Nally for lack of anything 
better to say. 

They continued their stroll in silence until 
Nally interrupted. “I haven't seen you in 
more than a year." 

“What do you think of that?" Sheryl drew 
deeply of her cigarette. 

“Of what?" 

“Nothing.” 

Again silence. Sheryl dropped her ciga- 
rette to the ground, where she crushed it out 
beneath her foot. 

Nally noted—not for the first time, how- 
ever—what a small and graceful foot it was. 
His eyes appraised her, from the tips of her 
brogues to the point of the solitary quill 
perched at arakish angle on her hat. Before 
his eyes had risen that far, however, Nally’s 
mind had decided very definitely that Sheryl 
was, without a doubt, the loveliest of women. 
She had such chie, such natural, slim beauty. 
He would haveliked to beable to appraise her 
at leisure, comfortably—but, then, he had 
never been entirely comfortable with Sheryl; 
perhaps that was why he had loved her so 
desperately for so long. 

She broke in on his pondering. I've been 
married since I last saw you. You may have 
heard.” 

“Yes, I heard." 

“I think you know him—Elton Cross.” 


“Oh, yes—Wall Street, Miami and George 
White’s backstage.” 

“You might at least be a gentleman.” 

“Dear Sheryl, I’ve never had the slightest 
intention of being опе.” 

“Really—tell me about your early strug- 
gles—as a boy.” 

Nally was desperately trying to retain his 
balance. Irrelevant talk upset his equilib- 
rium; he always emerged the loser. 

Sheryl tripped over a stone. 

Nally caught her by the arm. 

“Thank you. Stupid of me—should have 
looked where I was going.” 

Nally said nothing, but continued to hold 
her arm. He had so much he wanted to say, 
but something inside his throat made words 
difficult. As an alternative, he began to 
whistle softly, one of the more popular con- 
temporary tunes. 

Sheryl, being essentially feminine, pre- 
ferred conversation—even Nally's. She 
asked, “You still have your flat, I suppose?” 

Continuing to whistle, Nally nodded 
assent in time to the tune, which happened 
to be a waltz ballad. 

Sheryl took this with an expression of dis- 
dain, and resigned herself to waiting for the 
conclusion of the impromptu concert. 

Suddenly Nally stopped whistling, and, 
turning to her, asked, Love him?" 

“Who?” 

“This fellow Cross.” 
hard to be casual. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Sheryl, in recognition. 

Nally took advantage of the opening. 
“You know... your husband." 

“Oh, yes." 

“Yes—what? You remember him, or you 
love him?” 

“Both. Very well—and very much.” 

A turn in the path disclosed a wooden 
bench. They sat down. Nally leaned for- 
ward, and drew geometrical designs with his 
umbrella on the gravel. Sheryl tried, with 
some difficulty, to find her reflection in the 
mirror of the tiny compact which she took 
from her bag. 

“Evidently your husband doesn’t mind 
your walking in the Bois—alone—so soon 
after your marriage.” 

“Oh, I left him in London,” said Sheryl, 
who was, by now, in the process of applying 
more lipstick to her already much rouged 
and generous mouth. 

Nally made no comment, but contented 
himself with his designs. 

Finally Sheryl put away her lipstick and 
compact and starting gradually with a smile, 
worked herself up to a laugh. This cer- 
tainly is a romantic reunion,” she said. “I 
admit that the shock of seeing each other 
might have been disconcerting, and I am 
delighted that we didn’t break down and sob 
on each other’s necks in a burst of reminis- 
cences, but I did expect you to be as gay 
and disarming as you once were. I think, 
secretly, I wanted to be swept off my feet in 
a wave of passionate poesy.” 

Continued on page 101 


53 


He was trying so 


BREAK EM GENTLE 


A cowboy artist and story-teller 
points out that the bad ones, both 
bronks and women. can be gentled 


by DAN MULLER 


HE KID was a five year old when his 

pappy went to join his ancestors in the 
happy hunting grounds. You see, the old 
man was quarter blood Blackfoot, and he 
went out as he always kept asayin—with 
his boots on, exceptin in this ease he had one 
ofthemeaught 
in the stirrup, 
said stirrup 
belongin to a 
saddle that 
forkedasmean 
abronkasever 
lived. This 
partieular day 
the Kid's pap- 
py was jest а 
bit slow in 
easin himself 
onto the kack 
after he had 
pulled off the 


with old Flapjaek's teachin he graduated 
from easy bronks to some that were mighty 
hard settin for a lot of would-be cowboys. 
At seventeen, after the hardest kind of 
schoolin, with his maw atryin to get his mind 
offen bronks without much good bein did, 
and him havin 
competed in 
two Celebra- 
tions and win- 
ninday money 
in both, he 
learns from a 
passing eow- 
boy that there 
was to be big 
doins over to 
Cheyenne 
where the real 
money was, 
andwherethey 
was more crit- 


leg rope, and , = = 
that bronk knowed it, and that night when 
old Flapjack come in and rode past that 
eorrall he knowed jest what happened—and 
it took a friend of the Kid's pappy to recog- 
nize him, or them parts of hissen that wasn't 
kicked in. 

The Kid's maw was having a hard time 
on her 640 what with grubbin sage and 
clearin the land of stones and taking саге of 
another youngster; the Kid, young as he 
was, had a lot of responsibility throwed on 
his young shoulders. He'd ride herd on the 
few cows and wrangle the bronks that his 
pappy was takin the rough off of. He had a 
pony that he growed up with which the old 
man broke and broke plumb gentle for his 
kid who was the apple of his eye. 

By the time the Kid was ten he was a big 
help to his maw. By then, with old Flapjack 
still aworkin there and showin the Kid all 
the things his pappy didn't get a chanet to 
show him, he got to know what a rope was 
for, and what went to make a good cow-hoss. 
He was gettin the education that he took 
naturalto. His books was all the old saddle 
catalogues where the slick saddles, shaps, 
bits and spurs made his young heart crave 
for the time when he would be growed up 
and be able to 
use them at 
the Frontier 
Celebrations 
held onet a 
year. That 
Kid waslearn- 
in to ride in а 
way that 
would have 
made his pap- 
py glad to 
know that he 
was a son of 
his father. He 
had started in 
by ridin year- 
lin ealves and 


— 


Я 
p 


54 


EIS ies than hands 
competin. Well, the Kid never learned to 
write nor read so he tells the old Flapjack 
to tell maw not to worry that he would be 
home soon and maybe bring home a new 
saddle that he would win. 

Early next mornin that cowboy and the 
Kid saddles up and heads for the 
southern part of the state—and 
Glory. The cowboy was a good 
hand with the rope and was also 
enterin in the bronkridin, and to 
the Kid he was a God. The cow- 
boy had his wages and the Kid 
had a few dollars he had earned 
takin the rough offen some bronks 
for a squatter up the river, and 
that was jest enough to bed down 
onand put his hoss up when they 
arrived, which they did the day 
before Frontier Days opened. 

That cowboy sort of took a 
shine to the Kid and wised him jim 
up to big time doins, and after 
he plunked down his entry fee and took his 
draw out of the hat, he knowed which hoss 
he was goin to ride tomorrow. Funeralwagon 
was the draw, and Dave Wiggins who 
knowed that hoss, having won a first on him 
up at Pendle- 
ton, gave the 
Kid an earful 
that would do 
him good the 
next day. 

The sun was 
shinin—the 
band was a- 
playin—the 
stands were 
fillin up, and 
behind the 
scenes the cow- 
boys and cow- 
girls was get- 
tin themselves 
ready for their 


turns and for the grand entry. The Kid had 
no clothes to speak of. Jest a pair of old 
overalls and an old ridin jacket, and when 
he seed what those hands was awearin he 
made up his mind that next year things 
would be different. 

That grand entry ride opened the Kid’s 
eyes. He never imagined that they was so 
many people in this world. Bein raised the 
way he was, he thought as how they was 
more cattle in the world than humans. He 
watched with a keen eye the different events, 
and the time made with the ropes was some- 
thin he didn’t think possible. Here was real 
competition, the best hands in the country 
—and him acompetin with this mob. 

“The next event, ladies and gentlemen, is 
the men’s bronk ridin,” sings out the an- 
nouneer. How his heart jumped. His turn 
was comin. There was his hoss in the arena 
waitin to be saddled, and him with his saddle 
over his shoulder makin tracks for that hoss 
with his heart apoundin harder every step. 
In them days, gentle reader, we didn't have 
the handy chutes in which to saddle up in. 
They was eared down out in the open, and 
the rider saddled his own hoss and got on 
him whether he stood still or tried to climb 
the man's hoss that was earin him down. 


The Kid's name was sung out—also the 
Hoss's, and with his head in a whirl he slaps 
his wood onto that bronk, takes up on the 
cinch, and flanks him jest a bit nervouslike, 
and jest eases hisself into that saddle and 
hollers I'm a wolf, let im buck,” and them 
judges and cash customers and hands sees ә 
ride which for general cussedness and reck- 
lessness aint been equalled in along time. He 
jest makes a monkey outen that hoss and 
winds up by reachin down and undoin his 
hackamore and throwin it to the judges. 
The whistle blows—the pick-up man rides 
up to take him off but that Kid jest sorta 
walks offen that hoss, which is something 
that he has practiced a long time in his home 
corrall. 

You guessed it, dear reader, he winned 
day money that day, got away to a bum 
start the next, and then knocked off another 
day prizemoney on a hoss that the day be- 
fore throwed Jess Powers, a two-time cham- 
pion. Them cowboys took a likin to that Kid 

Continued on page 74 


ESQ UIRE— Autumn, 1933 


MULLER 


12 
aS 


ES QUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


THE PHANTOM CHAMPS 


Half a dozen fights for the 
lightweight championship were 
never put in the record book 


by BENNY LEONARD 


S do you believe in ghosts? 

If you were to ask me that question, 
I'd have to answer that when I'm awake 1 
don't, and when I'm asleep I don't, but 
when I'm “їп between," why that's another 
matter. I don't know. 

Not long ago I appeared at a benefit for а 
church in Oyster Bay, Long Island. When 
we left the church at nearly midnight, some 
one suggested I visit the grave of the late 
Theodore Roosevelt, who is buried in a 
cemetery there. At the stroke of midnight I 
was groping my way in the dark among the 
tombstones, under the trees and over the 
graves, and never once did I feel even the 
slightest qualm. I saw no ghosts nor heard 
any. Nevertheless, there were times when 
I not only saw ghosts, but actually felt them. 
It was back in 1919, my second year as light- 
weight champion of the world. Billy Gibson, 
my then manager, had arranged a trip out to 
California, where I was to engage in a series 
of fights. Among these was a four round еоп- 
test with Willie Ritchie, a former light- 
weight champion, and a native of California. 
The fight was scheduled to be held on Feb- 
ruary 21, 1919. I had been boxing around 
Sacramento, and had taken up my training 
quarters at Shannan’s, a regular training 
camp out near San Rafael, Calif. It so hap- 
pened that only one other boxer was train- 
ing there at this time, the same being Willie 
Meehan, the California Fat Boy. Willie was 
quite a clever clown—he once clowned his 
way to a four round win over Jack Dempsey 
by making Jack laugh so much he couldn’t 
fight—and he had ingratiated himself with 
Ma Shannan, so that he was quartered in 
the main house, leaving me the sole occu- 
pant of the huge dormitory in the gym 
proper. 

When I first arrived at Shannan’s, they 
showed me over the place and when we came 
to the dormitory, my guide waxed rem- 
iniscent. 

“You'll sleep in this bed, here near the 
window. You'l find it quite comfortable. 
Other champions slept there. Ad Wolgast 
picked it for his favorite spot. Over there, 
the immortal Joe Gans slept. In that bed"— 
pointing to a big double bed Jim Jeffries 
slept when he was training for his great 
battles." 

And he went on down the line, pointing 
out where this or that champion had slept at 
one time or another. Jimmy Britt, Battling 
Nelson, One Round Hogan, Jim Corbett, 
Young Corbett, conquerer of Terry Ме- 
Govern, Kid Lavigne, Frank Erne—a galaxy 
of greatness was paraded before my imagi- 
nation—and then he left me to my dreams. 

Now, up to that time, I always had been 
used to big erowds about me. Solitude was 
one thing I had never eraved, and indeed, 
did not appreciate. In all my fights, from 
the time I was a punk kid" just beginning 
to battle his way upward, the boys always 
had been my faithful followers, and I never 
had slept alone. You see, I had four broth- 


56 


ers and one of them usually slept with me. 

Now this is really becoming a very em- 
barrassing confession to make, so I must ask 
you to bear in mind that I was still very 
young. True, it was my second year as light- 
weight champion, but I was a home boy 
still, and that title was pretty new. At 
heart, and especially at night, I was still 
going by my first title, the Champion of 
Avenue A. 

You see, we East Side kids in New York 
used to fight by neighborhoods, and even by 
sections of neighborhoods. And there were a 
lot of kids on every block, so there was a 
champion for every street. At that, there 
never seemed to be enough championship 
titles to go around. 

Well, anyway, I was the Champion of 
Avenue A and very proud of the title, long 
before my first professional fight. I may say 
I had reason to be, too, because I took more 
punishment, I honestly think, in earning 
that title than in working my way up from 
there to the crown in the regular ring. 

We used to hold our fights in Mrs. Slot- 
kin’s back yard. Maybe that’s not her right 
name, but if it isn’t then hers was funnier. 
The reason we fought there was that she 
had once made a circular border of bricks 
around a flower bed and it made a perfect 
ring for our fights. 

Practice fights, that is all ordinary fights, 
were held wherever you happened to catch 
the first wallop from your opponent’s fist, 
but '"champeen" fights were saved to be 
served up with proper ritual in Mrs. Slot- 
kin’s back yard. 

Speaking of ritual, we had one there. No 
way had ever occurred to us of constructing 
ring posts and ropes that would survive 
more than the first moment of any ‘‘cham- 
peen" fight that was worth watching, so we 


simply had a rule instead. If you rushed 
your opponent, or if you were rushed, over 
the brick circle, then it was necessary to 
jump back nimbly and quickly inside the 
circle again so the fight could proceed with a 
minimum of lost time and action. That made 
the fights pretty funny to look at, with all 
the resultant dancing back and forth, but it 
was good for one’s footwork. 

Being the Champion of Avenue A was 
very nice in the afternoon in Mrs. Slotkin’s 
back yard, but of course it didn’t mean a 
thing at night when the champion might be 
three blocks from home carrying eggs from 
the grocery. On such occasions the cham- 
pion was as apt as not to cross the path of a 
gang from some other street. And whenever 
a champion with an armful of fragile pro- 
visions saw a gang he knew better than to 
stop to argue. On such occasions, lone 
champions always conceded defeat by in- 
ference, even if the gang might not number 
so much as a runner-up among them. 

I understand that Horatio at the bridge 
was an exception to this rule (except for the 
part about the eggs) but then, Horatio 
never lived on the lower East Side. There 
championships were at stake only in single 
combat, and bringing your gang along was 
no fair. 

Perhaps you think I’m digressing? No 
I’m not. Let’s go back to Ma Shannan’s 
dormitory and you'll see! 

So here I was, in this big dormitory, with 
the vast silence pressing in around me. I 
always retired fairly early when training, 
especially in those days, and I recall for the 
first time that I could remember, I couldn't 
get to sleep. I kept thinking of those great 
fighters who had occupied this room, and 
pretty soon the plaee became peopled with 
them. 

Every fighter experiences a "night be- 
fore" seance with himself on the eve of 
some very important battle. He thinks and 
studies, analyzing his coming battle from all 
angles. He has sporadic fits of apprehension 
and fear that he will lose, sandwiched in be- 
tween periods of confidence and determina- 
tion that he will win. He fights the battle 
over in his mind, and if he is of the stuff that 
real champions are made of, he finally lulls 
himself into a sleep, confident that he will 
win on the morrow. 

Well, every night was a "night before" for 
me there at Shannan’s. The only difference 
was that instead of fighting over an imagi- 
nary bout with my prospective opponent, 
Ritchie, I was fighting a different opponent 
every night, and an opponent with an illus- 
trious glamor of greatness. 

Out of the gloaming, dimly, at first, then 
more and more sharply, ghostly figures 
crowded the dormitory. They were easily 
recognizable, for I had seen numerous pic- 
tures of all the champions—as indeed, who 
hasn’t? The eerie dormitory seemed to re- 
sound with silent noise, as these great fight- 
ers peered appraisingly at me, as if they 

Continued on page 98 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


THIS OUR NEW YORK by HOWARD BAER 


HIS belted overcoat with raglan 

shoulders is gradually taking its 
place as the successor to the double 
breasted tan camel hair polo coat with 
pearl buttons which was, for such a long 
time, virtually the campus uniform in 
eastern prep schools and universities. 
These coats are made up, in this one 
model, in the softer handling fabrics 
of various weights and they go very 
well with the rougher suitings that are 
now dominant on every campus where 
attention to the niceties in the matter 
of dress is the rule rather than the 
exception. With the coat and suit of 
this type, the snap brim semi-Homburg 
hat and a pair of heavy brogues is in 
order. Note the bat tie—the long 
exiled bow has at last been restored 
to fashionable acceptance. In the bat 
style, foulards and twills are preferred, 
while in the four-in-hand first call 


58 


goes to the heavier materials, such as 
the silk and wool poplin in which the 
striped ties sketched at the right are 
made up. As a logical outgrowth of the 
popularity of wool and part wool ties, 
the favored muffler for college men is 
a light woolen made up in typical neck- 
wear patterns and colorings, like the 
bold polka dot shown in the sketch. 
The perennial pullover of camel hair 
seems assured, for at least another 
season, of retaining its status as one 
of the required items in the college 
and prep school wardrobe. While the 
sketch is not explicit on this point, 
you can assume that the collar which 
is covered by the polka dot bat tie 
is the button down variety—still the 
established favorite of the undergrad- 
uate, despite the recent increase in 
acceptance of the round collar at- 
tached model worn with a collar pin. 


^ = 
esd 
СЕ 


ee 


een „%% „050 
орото 


„ „ „ „„ „ „% 
» 


` 


eo? 
eos? * 


е 
LJ 
* 
= 
* 
e 
LI 
LJ 
* 


tos < 
oyp 


FOR THE COLLEGE 


LOWER CLASS MAN 


OR SENIOR PREP 


ESQUIR E Autumn, 1933 


FOR THE COLLEGE 
UPPER CLASS MAN 


OR YOUNGER GRAD 


ESQUIRE —Autumn, 1933 


T is impossible to over-emphasize the 

importance of soft rough fabrics in 
any consideration of clothes for campus 
wear. The popularity of rougher cloths 
in browns and Lovats, both in tweeds of 
the Harris type and in the soft handling 
homespuns, Shetlands and Saxonies is 
universal among the better dressed 
members of the fashion setting groups 
of upper classmen at Princeton and 
Yale. The coat sketched here, with four 
patch pockets, is the type that has been 
made up by the better tailors, for some 
time, for these young men and for the 
recent graduates in the New York finan- 
cial district. With it, Joe College clings 
to the most battered of snap brim hats, 
pinched unmercifully at the front of 
the crown. This is a constant source 
of irritation to right-thinking citizens 
in general and to the amalgamated hat 
makers in particular and while we are 


inclined to meet them at least half 
way in their contention that this is a 
subject for organized deploring, we also 
know that there is nothing to be done 
about it and a feeling for accuracy 
compels this candor. The average 
upper classman of the more aware type 
wouldn’t be caught dead in anything 
but a rather bruised dark brown snap 
brim hat. Proof that these young gen- 
tlemen do occasionally buy new ones 
(presumably wearing them in public 
only after some secret process of aging 
them in private) may be found in the 
fact that the current college hats have 
a somewhat higher and more tapered 
crown. Natural concomitants for the 
rougher clothing fabrics are crocheted 
wool ties in both horizontal and diag- 
onal stripings as well as in rich dark 
solid colors and wool hose in the tradi- 
tional Argyle plaid patterns. 


59 


60 


AT THE WALKATHON by HOWARD BAER 


PAINTED IN OIL FOR ESQUIRE 


ES Q UIR E— Autumn, 1933 


POOR MAN'S NIGHT CLUB 


About a place where celebrity 
is immediate and stardom easy 
and human dignity is very low 


by ARNOLD GINGRICH 


T’S a great money’s worth. For forty 
cents, on any evening, you will see more 
knoekdowns than a fight fan will ever see for 
forty dollars. For that same forty cents, 
you will hear as much poor singing and as 
much low humor, as the frequenter of cab- 
arets will get for a separate investment of 
dollars ten to forty. For forty cents, if you 
are cold and lonely and out of a job, on a 
raw winter's night, you join an audience 
eomposed of people who appear to have 
every right to feel as wretehed as yourself, 
and with them you get the thrill of being 
able to feel sorry for someone. 

With them you ean sit and stare at a seedy 
looking paek of youngsters who are reeling 
about, sodden with fatigue and numb with 
sleeplessness, in an enclosure the size of the 
average night club dance floor, and with 
them you ean say to yourself, as a sop to 
your self-respeet and a bolster to your fail- 
ing faith: There, out there on that floor, 
are guys I ean feel sorry for." And you 
don't know now what a luxury it is, some- 
times, to be able to say that; you don't know 
until you are cold and lonely and out of a 
job, on a raw winter's night. 

For your forty cents, if you are young and 
venturesome and out for no good purpose, 
you also get a better than even chance, be- 
fore your evening is over, of finding in the 
crowd some shapely female who will, for а 
very modest eonsideration or maybe, if it's 
late enough, for none at all, decide to share 
your mood. Oh the rich get all the gravy as 
surely none ean deny, but here the price of 
riches is but forty cents, for this is the poor 
man's night club. 


Yes sir, folks, the poor man's night club, 
this marvelous twenty-four hour show, this 
athletie contest, this test of endurance, this 
combat with the opponent that can’t lose 
folks, this combat with sleep, this gruelling 
grind, this scientific experiment in outwit- 
ting that old sandman, this—you get the 
idea folks, it’s different, it’s original, it’s 
unique, you'll love these kids folks, you'll 
follow their fortunes day by day folks, pull- 
ing for your favorites, and you'll get to know 
'em all folks and when you know 'em you'll 
love ’em—so come on down folks and if you 
come once we won't have to ask you to come 
again, it's only forty cents folks and it's less 
than that if you соте before dusk—yes sir, 
folks it's only two bits before nightfall and 
forty cents after that—it's the greatest, the 
biggest, the noisiest and liveliest and differ- 
entest folks in town show, I mean pardon 
me, show in town folks, it's the Walkathon. 


And so you go. You go to seoff and feel 
superior or you go to marvel and be im- 
pressed, and in the end it comes to the same 
thing. You go and after you get there you 
wonder why you've eome. You say to your- 
self it’s nothing but a lousy dance marathon 


ESQUIRE — Autumn, 1933 


with the dancing left out, it’s nothing but a 
walk and a pretty dreary slow shuffle at that, 
and it isn’t as if these saps were walking 
somewhere or even racing for a goal, they’re 
walking nowhere at all but just around and 
around and I’m crazier than they are if I sit 
here watching them. And this is about as 
tawdry a dump as I’ve ever been in and there 
are better smelling places, such as the gyms 
where prizefighters train, and if I’m smart 
ГІІ take my loss now, they сап have my 
forty cents, it’s worth it to get out and I 
guess I'll go now. That’s what you say to 
yourself, your first few minutes at а Walk- 
athon. And the worst of it is, you're right. 
Yet somehow you don't get right up and get 
out, you only sit there wondering why you 
don't, and then after a while, without know- 
ing just when, you've stopped wondering 
why, and you're watehing the Walkathon. 


'The odds are that you will never go to à 
Walkathon, never go though stacks of 
figures should be mustered to assure you 
that a great many people do. You have your 
answer neat and pat: a great many people 
also go to lodge pienies, ice-cream socials, 
revival meetings, lynchings, hog-calling 
tournaments, jail, and hell, every year, and 
so far you've kept the news from affecting 
you strongly in a personal way. 

And if that's the way you feel about it, 
it's plain you're the type who would enjoy 
it most. That's why these notes are written 
for you. 

Of course, it would be better if you'd go 
yourself. There are things, like falling in 
love or watehing a Walkathon, which сап 
be deseribed but should be experienced to be 
realized fully. 

You could describe a Walkathon as a con- 
test among teams, consisting of a boy and 
girl per team, to determine, by elimination 
through falling asleep, which team ean walk 
the longest time. Yes and you could describe 
a kiss as contact with the empty end of a 
digestive tube some thirty-odd feet long. 
But you would be nearer, in both instances, 
to a definition than a description, and you 
would be omitting all the attractive features. 


It is less important to tell you about the 
intricacies of the rules than it is to mention 
the hot dogs and the beer, and how lousy 
they are at ten in the evening and how won- 
derful at four in the morning. And how you 
ean eonvert all the eontestants, in an in- 
stant, from performers to a gaping audience, 
by the simple expedient of walking in of а 
summer night wearing a white mess jacket, 
that's the kind of a place it is. And how а 
few weeks wreak the changes of the ages 
and a contest ean be less than two months 
old and you find yourself longing for its good 
old days. And about the smoke haze and the 
decorations gaudy but none too clean, like a 
circus rider's costume, and the sour music, 


there never was music so sour on land or sea 
as the kind you get at a Walkathon, and the 
uncomfortable rickety chairs and the dirty 
floor and how you miss all that, when the 
contest gets to its last stages and the money’s 
rolling in and the crowds are enormous and 
they clean up the old place and change it. 


Yes there are a lot of angles, and there 
are elements of fake, particularly in the 
early stages before the thing becomes a real 
test of stamina, when the ardors and endur- 
ances must be built up by liberal admixture 
of all the old gags of showmanship. Without 
them, a Walkathon would lose most of its 
power for the engendering of excitement. 
Have you ever seen a wrestling match that 
was absolutely, unequivocally on the square, 
and if you have, could you sit it out? Well, a 
Walkathon is as dependent upon showman- 
ship as a wrestling match is. 

A Walkathon without special entertain- 
ment features, both in the contest and in 
addition to it, would be like a horse race 
without betting. So there are all manner of 
stunts worked into the contest itself, and a 
variety of extra divertissements thrown in. 

There are the sprints and the grinds and 
the so-called horse races. The latter are 
exciting enough but there is something 
phoney about them. They involve the com- 
pletion, by each contestant, of a specified 
number of laps (that is, complete circuits of 
the Walkathon floor) within a given time 
limit. The girls are usually allowed to run, 
while the boys are made to walk. Curiously, 
though I have seen over thirty of these 
things, I have yet to see a contestant elimi- 
nated by one, and I have yet to see the time 
when the last contestant does not fall across 
the finish line as the bell sounds at the end 
of the time limit. If that’s a coincidence, it’s 
very odd. 

A sprint, in a Walkathon, means one of 
two things. In the opening stages, the con- 
testants walk forty-five minutes then retire 
for fifteen minutes of sleep. Later this is 
changed almost daily, the walking periods 
being increased and the rest periods cut 
down. At the end of each walking period, 
just before the bell, the floor judge usually 
asks for a sprint. That means little more 
than that the contestants are expected to 
snap out of their dreary shuffle and walk 
briskly around the floor until the end of the 
walking period. On the other hand, one of 
the elimination events is also known as a 
sprint. This means that for a certain period, 
say from eight in the evening until twelve, 
the rest periods are cancelled and the con- 
testants are allowed only the number of falls 
for the entire interval that they would be 
allowed for one regular walking period. 

The three fall rule is usually in effect for 
the first month at least. It means that a 
contestant may clank to the floor twice 
within one walking period, but that a third 

Continued on page 104 


61 


THE ART IN PUTTING 


A grip that uses left hand for 
direction and contact, relying 
upon the right for touch. speed 


by BOBBY JONES 


x way of introducing this discussion of 

putting, I think I ought to say that 
there is great danger in adopting a method 
that is too nearly fixed and immutable. Too 
often a man who attempts to copy each de- 
tail of the style of someone else, or who tries 
to develop his own method according to 
rigid specifications, finds himself entirely 
tied up by the tension of his position. I 
should like one who reads this to understand 
that there is to be allowed some latitude for 
the individual in order to assure complete 
comfort and relaxation. 

In order that we may begin with a sem- 
blance of a proper sequence, we may divide 
the important fundamentals of putting into 
three headings. First, the correct grip; sec- 
ond, the position at address, and, third, the 
stroke itself. 

I think that the best way to bring out 
what I consider to be the chief requirements 
of the grip would be to describe my own and 
give the reasons for the appearance of the 
important features. In the first place, it will 
be seen from the accompanying photograph 
that the thumbs of both hands touch the 


62 


club exactly on the top of the shaft. This 
accomplishes two things. It locates my two 
hands with respect to each other and with 
respect to the face of the club in what I deem 
to be the proper position, that is, with 
the back of the left hand presented squarely 
to the hole and the palm of the right hand, 
if it were opened, in the same position. This 
is intended to encourage a stroke directed 
exactly along the line of the putt and to dis- 
courage a tendency of either hand to twist 
the face of the club away from its proper 
alignment. 


Light Grip 


The grip should always be light. 
Aids 


The nice correlation of direc- 
tion and speed, which is so necessary to suc- 
cessful putting, demands a very delicate 
touch and there is nothing which can defeat 
this so completely as a tense grip. My grip 
on a putter could be ealled firm only in the 
three smaller fingers of my left hand. My 
right hand merely rests upon the club as I 
am addressing the ball. 

The photograph shows what I suppose 
would be called a reverse overlap, that is, 


instead of the ordinary overlapping grip, in 
which the little finger of the right hand over- 
laps the forefinger of the left hand, in this 
ease the forefinger of the left hand is on top. 
The advantage of this, I think, in addition to 
eneouraging a light grip, is to remove the 
possibility of squeezing the shaft of the club 
between the thumb and forefinger of the left 
hand, a tendeney which would be increased 
by the firmness of the grip of the smaller 
fingers of this hand. 

One of the chief dangers in putting, just 
as in playing every other golf shot, is that of 
raising the club too abruptly in starting the 
baekswing, a motion which is usually accom- 
plished by the right hand. The putter, like 
any other club, should be started back close 
to the ground and should never pass outside 
of an imaginary line drawn through the ball 
to the hole. I have found that the best way 
to prevent this is to start the backswing by 
means of the smaller fingers of the left hand, 
in which I have said that the grip was firm. 

As accurately as I ean describe the feeling, 
the putting stroke is to me a matter of using 
the left hand for direction and true contact 


ESQ UIR E— Autumn, 1933 


Front view of Jones' reverse overlap putting grip showing 

how thumbs of both hands touch the top of the shaft. His 

grip is light, the grasp being concentrated in the three smaller 
fingers of the left hand. 


and the right hand for touch and speed. The 
firmness in the left hand controls the path of 
the putter blade and the delicate sense be- 
tween the thumb and forefinger of the right 
hand makes the last little adjustment in the 
strength of the blow and gives it its erisp 
quality. 
Right Thumb There is one very impor- 
toe. Sense tant point which concerns 
the way in which the right 
thumb makes contact with the club. It will 
be seen that only the first joint of this thumb 
is touching the club. The grip at this point, 
as a matter of fact, is very light and the con- 
trol is as delicate as possible. Many fine 
putters look upon this as the secret of their 
ability to accurately gauge the speed of a 
fast green. A few, notably Johnny Farrell, 
make the contact with only the end of the 
thumb and press the thumb nail into the 
leather of the grip. Any number of bad put- 
ters, particularly beginners, press the whole 
length of this thumb upon the shaft. They 
thereby lose all sense of touch in that area. 
I think this about disposes of the par- 
ticular features of the grip which I think are 
important. Generalities are sufficiently well 
disclosed by the photograph. There is not 
likely to be a necessity for much variation 
from the orthodox. Some players will, no 
doubt, find that the reverse overlap is not 
comfortable for them. In this case they 
should by no means use it. I do, however. 
think that the location of the right thumb 
should be very close to that illustrated. I 
have watched numbers of fine putters and 
I find that this is growing to be a more and 
more common practice among them. This 
would indicate that there is something in it. 


Comfort Main The most sensible thing 
Essential in Putting which could be said 
Stance Swing about the proper ad- 


dress for the putt is that every possible con- 
sideration should be sacrificed to comfort; 
and as I have said before, the thing which 
prevents this most often is the attempt to 
reproduce exactly the method of someone 
else. There is no possibility of putting well 
without a rhythmic stroke, directed by re- 
laxed muscles, capable of receiving the most 
delicate impulses. To studiously imitate in 
all respects the attitude of another player, 
immediately sets up a strain or tension 
which makes smooth stroking impossible. 
No matter how great or how perfect may be 
the model, his posture cannot be the easiest 
and most comfortable for everyone. 


Imitation Apt to I have been through all 
Cause Tenseness this myself so I think I 
am qualified to speak. No one could have 
had more worry in developing a reliable 
putting method than have I. In the various 
stages of my labor I have tried to imitate the 
styles of nearly all the great putters—tried 
to make myself look like them and given 
myself, as nearly as possible, the same man- 
nerisms—and in the end I became unalter- 


Side view of same grip showing how palm of right hand and 
back of left hand are presented squarely to hole. This keeps 
putter head at right angles to line of putt. 
ably convinced that the attempt to imitate 
was itself the most serious mistake I was 
making. Now, I never give a thought to the 
placing of my feet, to the inclination or the 
faeing of my body, nor to anything else 
except assuring a definitely affirmative an- 
swer to the question, “Ат I comfortable?" 


Rhythm and [t is for the same reason that 
Smoothness T should never consider for a 
moment advising a person to keep his head 
still or his body immovable. Whether or not 
the best putters do stand perfectly still while 
making the stroke has nothing to do with it. 
The point is that trying to do these things 
produees tension and tension must be 
avoided. I should always advise to forget 


these things entirely, and to allow them to 
take eare of themselves. If the motion of 
the swing suggests the necessity of a slight 
movement of the body then by all means let 
it move. TThe feeling of ease and comfort 
thus gained is worth all the mechanical per- 
fection that could be erammed into a dozen 
strokes. Rhythm and smoothness—smooth- 
ness and rhythm—these are the two things 
most desired. 


Arms Close Now to be a little more specific 
to Body Il find that it is an aid to com- 
fort to stand with my feet quite close to- 
gether, just as I would stand normally if I 
were not playing a golf shot, to permit a 
slight bend in both knees, and to keep my 
arms close to my body. Perhaps, since the 
word “keep” connotes the exercise of some 
restraint, it would be better to say that I re- 
frain from extending my arms away from 
my body. The photograph illustrates all 
these points and the further fact that my 
elbows each show a considerable bend. This 
attitude is the one which I find the most 
comfortable, and the one which best encour- 
ages ease and relaxation. I may say that 
there is at least nothing about it which is at 
all studied or artificial. 


Stroke Should Be | think the best concep- 
Long Sweep tion to have of the put- 
ting stroke itself is that it should be a long 
sweep. I like to feel that, instead of driving 
the ball toward the hole, I am merely sweep- 
ing it, or bowling it over the green. The two 
important characteristics of the stroke which 
this kind of picture induces are first, a 
marked flatness of the are—the blade of the 
putter never rises abruptly either going back 
or following through—and second, a good 
alignment which prevents cutting across the 
ball. The intention to sweep rather than hit 
tends to prevent a pick-up with the right 
hand, which is the chief cause of cutting. 
If the club be swung back mainly with the 
left hand, there is little danger of lifting, and 
the head of the putter will always remain 
well on the inside, whence a stroke directed 
along the intended line of the putt can be 
accomplished. 


Left Arm Must I have said that the arms 
Be Free should be elose to the body. 
This is true, but there should never be any 
suggestion that the player is “hugging him- 
self." In my own style my right forearm is 
lightly touching the front of my trousers, 
but I am always eareful to see that my left 
arm is entirely free. If this elbow is pressed 
close against the left side untold trouble can 
result, for there is thus encouraged an al- 
most irresistible tendency to yank the putt 
off line to the left. Continued on page 115 


Putting stance of Bobby Jones showing slight bend in both knees and a considerable bend in elbows to aid 
relaxation. Both arms are close to body; right forearm touching trousers, left arm free to keep putt on line. 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


63 


I WAS. I AM. A SPY 


A seeret agent^s real story, 
fictionized for publication 
but based upon actual fact 


by P173 (CAPTAIN X) 


I the late Spring of 1916 I walked into 
the Dome one evening just after dinner. 
I had not had anything to do except send 
propaganda junk over to my paper. In a 
easual way I was keeping my eyes and ears 
open for the newcomers to the Quarter and 
defeatist talk that they emitted but I had no 
special assignment. Bennett, a hack writer, 
hailed me and I figured that it was a touch. 
I didn't mind staking him from time to time 
and having him attend to minor errands for 
me. He, of course, knew me merely as Larey 
Howard, that strange bird among newspaper 
men who always had money, got in with the 
right people and neglected his work to en- 
gage in their war charities. Of my real activ- 
ities, I know he had not the least suspicion. 
We had a few drinks and played checkers. 
As I beat him oftener than usual I felt some- 
thing was bothering him. When he paid for 
the drinks I was sure of it. He asked me to 
come to his room and when we got there, he 
uncorked. I never saw а man in a worse 
state of funk. He started in by asking if I 
knew that the British M. P.s were raiding 
eafes for their nationals and impressing them 
into service. To my question as to what the 
Hell he cared about that, he told me that he 
couldn't stand the muck and horror of it, 
that he would die of the hardship, that he 
didn't believe in war and this one least of all. 
From out of his incoherencies I finally tum- 
bled to the faet that he was a Canadian who 
had lived in New York some fifteen years 
before coming to Paris and had neglected 
becoming an American citizen, a matter he 
now deeply regretted. Not that he loved the 
Americans more (they were a stinking lot of 
profiteers), but the warless. What he wanted 
of me was to wangle some scheme to get him 
to the U. S. before the M. P.s got him. I 
must know some way out for him. In the 
U. S. he knew he was safe because they were 
making so damned much out of the war that 
they'd stay neutral. I promised to see what 
I eduld do for him and left after telling him 
to lie doggo for a few days until he heard 
from me. 

At eleven o'clock I telephoned to my Chief 
that I had something whieh might prove of 
interest. He made an appointment to pick 
me up. I took the Metro to the Etoile where 
a taxi-driver hailed me with a code signal. 
I stepped in and found the Chief. As we 


rode about, Bennett’s case was quickly out- 
lined and I told him I thought that if he 
could provide the slacker with a passport 
and passage that he would give up his Brit- 
ish passport to us. I described Bennett as 
about my height, twenty pounds lighter, 
dark hair and complexion, wearing a mus- 
tache, generally a nondescript type. The 
Chief reflected for a time, then asked if Ben- 
nett could get by on my passport if he ае- 
companied someone with a front. I told him 
I thought the examination of passports in 
New York was so perfunctory that he could. 
The Chief then gave me instructions. I 
should exchange passports with Bennett, 
give him a ticket to Bordeaux, see that he 
got away on the train two days later, tell 
him to board the Espagne and await Win- 
ston Smith, the well-known American charity 
worker whom he was to serve under my 
name, as secretary. If he asked questions, to 
tell him that Smith did not know me but 
would take the secretary provided for him 
by Boileau of the Information Service, or do 
anything else Boileau wanted, as he had 
hopes of getting a decoration through his 
influence. (Winston Smith, by the way, to 
the general public, was the typical fussy 
philanthropist always ready to be helpful 
and always gumming the works. As a mat- 
ter of fact, he was one of our coolest and 
best men.) Upon arrival in New York, he 
should give Smith the slip, deliver my pass- 
port to Jones of the Blank Trust Co. who 
would manage to get it back to me. He had 
better leave New York as Smith would want 
to know what had become of his secretary. 
The Chief continued that if Bennett ob- 
jected to the plan and my apparent helpful- 
ness, I should tell him I washed my hands of 
the matter and that I had heard that the 
Sureté were turning over all records of iden- 
tity cards to the interested military police 
in an attempt to clear Paris because of food 
shortage. Further, I should tell him to 
travel light taking only necessary changes 
and no papers. I would send his belongings 
when he had an address in the U. S. 

Three days later Bennett was on the high 
seas with my passport and his was in the 
Chief’s safe. That afternoon the Chief sent 
word to me to meet him at Bennett's room 
for an assignment. I found him there with 
two other men, one of whom I knew as one 


of our service, a clever make-up man. The 
other outlined my mission. He explained 
that there was an understanding between 
the Allied governments to furnish each other 
with details of explosives, new war inven- 
tions, mechanical devices and the like. Need- 
less to say, none of them exercised entire 
good faith as the Ally of today might prove 
to be the enemy of tomorrow. Our Navy 
Department were told by the British that 
they had been working on several new types 
of mines but none were perfected. Never- 
theless, there had been a concentration of 
mine-layers at Gibraltar and there had been 
considerable activity in the squadron which 
had been wintering at Marseilles. It was up 
to me to find out about the new mines. 
When I demurred that I had not the slight- 
est mechanical knowledge, I was told that 
all I was to get was the model number and 
date of manufacture which would appear on 
the mines or their containers. Whereupon 
the gentleman left us. (I saw him just once 
thereafter; after the Armistice I was pre- 
sented to him by General Fayolle at Kaisers- 
lautern. He was wearing the uniform of 
Vice Admiral. He accepted the introduction.) 
I asked the Chief how he expected Larey 
Howard, an American journalist, even to get 
aboard a British mine-layer, much less get 
to see the mines and when he explained, I 
realized the truth of the French army prov- 
erb, Never give whips to your superiors, 
they lash you with them." He produced 
Bennett’s passport, with a faked photograph 
of myself substituted. A cable had already 
been sent to my paper that I was going on 
mission to Morocco with General M. I 
should drop a note to a personal friend to 
look after my mail as I was leaving for 
Morocco hurriedly. Pierre, the make-up 
man, would trim my mustache and stain my 
skin darker so that I answered the descrip- 
tion on the faked passport which would be 
left in the room. My own papers the Chief 
would take with him for safe-keeping and I 
was to carry Bennett’s Carte d’Identité and 
a few letters addressed to him which had 
been found among his belongings. I was to 
be at the Cafe d’Alma at 9 o’clock. Word 
had been passed to the Chief by the Sureté 
that details of police had been requested by 
the British to aid in slacker-raids, synchron- 
ized for 9:30, in cafes frequented by their 
Continued on page 98 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


DINNER JACKETS 


GET A BREAK IN 


GREATER COMFORT 


ESQUIR E—Autumn, 1933 


OW that the renascence of the tail- 
coat has put the dinner jacket 

back in its place, restoring its true status 
as а strietly informal garment, every 
effort is being put forth to make it at 
least as comfortable as the business 
suit. Imagine a shirt front that doesn't 
bulge, a collar that doesn't bind, a eoat 
that’s easy-fitting and a weskit“ that 
doesn’t constrict. And if all that is a 
strain on your imagination, then your 
dinner kit is probably as out of date in 
style as it is in comfort. As for details, 
the white waisteoat has at last been 
allowed to rejoin its lawful but long es- 
tranged mate, the taileoat, and the 
newer dinner jaekets are matched with 
a waistcoat of the jacket material, with 
dull grosgrain lapel facing. As for model, 
the one sketched is probably the best 
buy because it won’t be soon outmoded. 
That doesn’t mean that the double 


breasted dinner jacket is a passing fad. 
The shawl collar version is all right, too. 
But unless you’re so swank you buy a 
new one every season, your best bet is 
the classic single-breasted type shown 
here. You may object to the opera hat 
with the dinner-jacket, but if you do 
you’re a die-hard in a losing cause—it’s 
now choice A with this turnout. Choice 
B is the black Homburg, which will, at 
that, pass any doorman. But the derby 
is choice Z, just after the checked cap! 
The best dress shirt is pique bosomed 
and mesh-cloth bodied, and it fits, 
thanks to adjustable back straps, an 
idea borrowed from French-back shorts. 
The lighter that needs no flipping, and 
works like the one on your dashboard, 
is a social asset several degrees better 
than the best card trick. Don’t forget 
the carnation, and don’t forget that 
it should be maroon and not scarlet. 


65 


66 


Pardon me, miss, I didn’t see the tennis racket -I thought you 
had forgotten something” 


ESQUIRE — Autumn, 1953 


CONFESSIONS OF A GHOST 


Nameless and unapplauded 
are the wraiths who fire the 
big guns of humor over the air 


by JOSEPH HOYT 


HEN Little Buttercup, that mystic 

lady, remarked that things are seldom 
what they seem, and added the information 
that skim milk masquerades as cream and 
jackdaws strut in peacocks’ feathers, she 
might well have had prophetic reference 
to a state of affairs which would have scan- 
dalized her creator, good Sir William 
Gilbert. There was no ghost writing in 
Queen Victoria’s time; and there was no 
radio. It remained for the twentieth cen- 
tury to develop broadeasting and spook 
writing, two arts which flourish in peculiar 
sympathy with each other. This may 
account for the curiously phony air which 
pervades most programs, for the jackdaws, 
the stuffed shirts, the frauds and hoaxes of 
radio are unanimously indebted to the 
ghost writer for whatever dubious dis- 
tinction may be theirs. 

I know, because I have practiced the 
ghostly trade for seven years, and have 
haunted some of radio’s most prominent 
personages during that time. It is a dread- 
ful business. 

There was, for instance, the famous an- 
nouncer. He had a turn of phrase, a light- 
ness of touch, setting him apart from the 
commonplace. Or rather, his literary ghost 
was gifted in this way. The announcer him- 
self, an amiable yokel, never faced a 
microphone without a carefully edited copy 
of his supposedly extemporaneous remarks. 
This manuscript was written by the ghost, 
who accompanied the announcer on every 
assignment to see that he attempted no 
flights on his own responsibility. Time 
passed. The announcer grew rich. The 
ghost prospered too, but he is still anony- 
mous—a wraith of the ether waves. 

It may be remarked that no advance 
manuscript ean be prepared to cover the 
exigencies of spot news broadeasting. To a 
large extent this is true; hence one of the 
air’s outstanding bores—the stumbling, 
halting, ill-advised ‘‘word painting" of the 
news announcer without a script. 

However, the famous prima donna an- 
nouneers use considerable ingenuity in 
avoiding the necessity of ad-libbing, as 
actually extemporaneous talking is called. 
Before any publie event, the ghosts—some- 
times politely labelled *'observers"—have 
earefully examined the scene. These men 
prepare page after page of apt, informed 


description and comment. There is enough 
material written to keep a man talking for 
an hour, making sense, and with a perfect 
illusion of spontaneity. When football is 
broadeast this Fall, let skeptics compare 
the comment prior to the game with the 
running description of the play, which of 
course cannot be prepared in advance, and 
draw their own conclusions. 

I have often ascended giddy heights in 
order to lay out a scene for some supposed 
word magician to describe. I remember 
clambering over the girders of an uncom- 
pleted skyscraper in downtown New York. 
On the following day the building was to be 
dedicated with great pomp. I don’t like 
dizzy heights. As I clung to an iron ladder, 
and peered out over the Jersey shore, with 
the river brown and ineredibly far away, 
and the ferry boats like matehboxes beneath 
me, I began to wonder how it would feel to 
jump. If I fell from that grandiose tower, 
would any spirit return to climb the narrow 
stair? Though I didn’t jump, I haunt that 
place still. I haunt it in the words of an 
announcer who droned off my typewritten 
copy from an office five floors below the 
pinnacle from which I looked out for him. 

I suppose I have addressed more people 
than any man on earth, through the voices 
of the various announcers for whom I have 
written. These include the great Graham 
MeNamee, Ted Husing, Alois Havrilla, 
Milton J. Cross, James Wallington, Nor- 
man Brokenshire, and many others less 
noted. In pursuit of ideas for my principals, 
I have flown in aeroplanes, blimps and 
gliders, gone down in submarines, visited 
every library in New York City, and made 
the aequaintanee of a pair of haughty and 
faintly surprised lions in the Central Park 
Zoo. 

However, this type of radio spook writing 
takes in only the "stunt" broadcast, that 
somewhat dismal phenomenon of an in- 
dustry which at time appears to be operated 
solely for the benefit of the penniless, the 
witless and the aimless elements of the 
population. The ghost has other uses, and 
one of the most interesting of these is the 
furnishing of speeches read over the air by 
important men who feel called upon to say 
a few words to what they fondly imagine is 
an audience of listening millions.” 

Nearly always the procedure is the same. 


A corporation, sponsoring a program, begins 
to twitch and exhibit signs of nervousness 
after the third or fourth week. Soon the 
corporate nervousness takes the form of 
certain agents or outriders of the high 
executives in the concern. These ambassa- 
dors appear at the broadcasting offices and 
announce that Mr. So-and-So has con- 
sented” to address the audience during the 
course of the program. So we have such 
entertainers as Chairman Sloan of General 
Motors, Owen D. Young of General Electric, 
Walter P. Chrysler (of Walter P. Chrysler), 
and many lesser lights of the industrial 
world, competing with hired talent for the 
attention of tuners-in. Here the ghost has 
the client absolutely at his merey. It is for 
the ghost to decide whether the great man 
shall appear as an intelligent person or a 
vague and rambling mediocrity. And why 
doesn’t the magnate present his own 
thoughts, in his own words, for better or 
worse? The answer is, should one of these 
eminent individuals write his own speech, 
and the fact get about, he would definitely 
lose caste, for it would be taken to mean 
that he couldn’t afford a ghost. Writing 
one’s own speeches is another of the things 
that simply aren’t done. 

In my modest way I have put suitable 
words, at least I hope they were suitable, 
into the mouths of corporation presidents, 
and bankers, and prominent persons of all 
sorts, including a famous stage designer 
and a musician of world renown. The latter 
had the misfortune to be illiterate in his 
own or any tongue. Another client was a 
clergyman whose flock numbers well into 
the thousands, but who on the occasion of 
his first broadcast felt too nervous to 
address the Almighty extemporaneously. 
Of course that was some years ago. Nowa- 
days any clergyman worth his salt has 
conquered “mike fright” and has his own 
radio technique, like a crooner, or a 
politician. 

Well, those spontaneous fellows, the 
comedians, they must surely be originators. 
No one could touch off such sure-fire 
laughter unless he had also conceived the 
idea, the underlying joke, you think? Not 
so. The comics are the most notoriously 
haunted of all who feed the microphones. 
The successful funny men have whole 
troops of ghosts, who are in a constant 

Continued on page 103 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


PRINCETON PANORAMA 


Concerning the bull session 


as antidote to over-emphasis 


on study—a candid catalogue 


by RING W. LARDNER, JR. 


Lor of aspersions have been cast upon 
A eollege education in the last decade or 
so. Idealists with new-fangled theor:es 
about edueation have declared that all a boy 
getsin college is a bunch of faets which don't 
mean much and which he forgets as soon as 
possible anyway. They say he doesn't get 
any real eultural appreciation under the 
present methods. And they're quite right. 
He doesn't. And there isn't any educational 
system possible that could give it to him. 
The way I see it, a person has either got the 
love of learning in him or he hasn't. If a boy 
likes to read books or listen to musie, he is 
going to go on reading as many books or 
listening to as much musie as possible, and 
what he is told in college about the benefits 
of these pursuits isn't going to affect him. 
And the same way, if he confines his reading 
to the motion pieture magazines and the 
sporting pages, and thinks that Guy Lom- 
bardo is the chosen of Euterpe, all the in- 
spired lectures in the world will leave his 
tastes inviolate. 

The Puritans, on the other hand, main- 
tain that all a boy learns in a modern college 
is to smoke, to drink, to swear, and to gam- 
ble. Let me assure them, as a close observer 
of twentieth century youth, that this aceu- 
sation is unfounded. He learns all those 
things in prep school. 

The point that seems to escape these 
critics is that college is, and should be, a 
primarily social institution. Graduates of а 
place like Princeton look back on it fondly, 
not as the spot where they first learned the 
elements of biology, but as the site of some 
of their most enjoyable experiences, and the 
place where they made some valuable con- 
tacts and learned a lot of practical lessons 
not included in the text- 
books. We Americans, in 
spite of Hollywood and 
Radio City, are still con- 
sidered a practical race, and 
it is perhaps because of this 
inherent strain in our na- 
tures that we are so loath 
to abandon this absurd 
over-emphasis on curricu- 
lum. 

II 

All classifications of hu- 
man beings into types 
should be avoided, since 
there is no such thing as 
twocompletely similar men. 
Among the twenty-two hundred boys who 
make up the Princeton undergraduate body, 
there are probably twenty-two hundred 
different types of young American manhood, 
but, nevertheless, no one, writing of college 
life, seems to be able to resist the temptation 
to divide his characters into such time-hon- 
ored categories as“ dumb athletes,” “grinds,” 
“smoothies,” ete. The best example of this 
sort of writing I have ever read was a play 
written last year by a Princeton undergrad- 
uate, but he, too, fell into the error of trying 


to make his minor characters too typical, 
which only resulted in their being made less 
convincing. 

I happen to know a college athlete who 
appears to be absorbed in practically noth- 
ing except dying for his 
Alma Mater, but he is a de- 
cided exception to the rule. 
The best natural athlete I 
ever knew divided his spare 
time between drawing and 
writing poetry, and a track 
star who is expected to 
break the world’s record in 
his event during the next 
two years is almost as well 
known by his fellow-stu- 
dents as an honor man and 
an exceptional Greek 
scholar. 

It is this inconsistency of 
all human character that helps to make college 
the fascinating experienceitis, for there comes 
a boy’s first intimate contact with a wide 
range of people with quite different ideas 
and habits than his own. He not only meets 
these people, but he is compelled to associate 
with them, and if he has a particular inter- 
est in human nature, he is enabled to cul- 
tivate especially the types which he desires 
to study. 

TII 

The scene is a college room, the time 
about eleven o’clock in the evening. The 
room is densely populated with boys and 
smoke. A game of bridge is in progress in 
the center; on a sofa a pair of boys are mak- 
ing a futile attempt to study; others are 
sitting or standing about the room. Bottles 
of applejack and ginger ale and a number of 
glasses indicate that this 
is a festive occasion—the 
celebration, perhaps, of the 
arrival of unexpected funds. 

“You shouldn't have re- 
doubled, Phil; that’s the 
point. You’ve got to be prac- 
tically certain to redouble, 
because it's worth so much 
more to them if you're set 
than to us if we make it." 

*But if the spades had 
been divided—”’ 

„That's just it. They 
wouldn't have doubled if 
the distribution hadn't 
been bad." 

“Look at Harry; he’s out on one drink." 

Where'd you get this stuff, Herb?" 

“Walt can’t take it.” 

“This party's getting dull. Let's go over 
to Trenton and get—" 

Wait a minute. What about the French?” 

Already the party is breaking up, but that 
does not mean that the evening is over. Some 
of them go out to seek new diversion, others, 
more conscientious, return to their own 
rooms for study or sleep. A few of the more 
intimate friends of the host remain, and 


their devotion is rewarded, for he produces 
a new bottle. The conversation turns upon 
one of the departed, and he is taken over the 
coals in the scathing fashion characteristic 
of boys discussing their fellows. The topic 
leads to another; anything 
may be diseussed— people, 
careers, sex, football, 
clothes. A “bull session" 
is in progress. 

The ‘‘bull session” is the 
foundation of a college edu- 
cation. It is the most effec- 
tive means of exploiting 
these contacts with new 
personalities which make 
college a valuable prepara- 
tion for life. These long, 
and usually nocturnal, dis- 
cussions consist of exchanges 
of ideas on widely varied 
subjects between boys of different environ- 
ments. Sometimes the conversation is on a 
surprisingly high intellectual level; some- 
times it is downright vulgar. Whatever the 
issue, however, the discussion is frank, and 
candor is essential if an exchange of ideas 
is to be beneficial. That is the advantage the 
“bull session” has over the classroom or pre- 
ceptorial; too many factors enter in to allow 
a free and unrestrained discussion between 
professor and student. 

IV 

All colleges are in the habit of issuing 
catalogues which purport to describe the 
institutions for the benefit of prospective 
students, and the idea would be an excellent 
one if they contained descriptions which 
were in any sense accurate. For instance, a 
“Candid Catalogue For Princeton Pros- 
pects” might read somewhat as follows: 

“Princeton University, situated in Princ- 
ton, N. J., is one of the oldest and most re- 
fined gentlemen’s finishing schools in the 
country. The buildings, with a few lament- 
able exceptions, are in an attractive Gothic 
style, and the climate, although at times un- 
pardonable, is about as good as any in the 
northeastern United States. 

“The students, while not as intellectual as 
those at Harvard, are a decided improve- 
ment over the Yale, or pseudo-sophisticated 
type. We may have an occasional boy who 
would not be here had not some generous 
alumnus admired his skill as a high school 
halfback, but it must be taken into consid- 
eration that football is one of the few re- 
maining methods by which a college with 
any self-respect may advertise itself. 

“We discourage excessive drinking, and 
women are not allowed in dormitory rooms 
after six p.m., but that does not mean that 
the boys are overly-restricted in regard to 
diversion. There are two motion picture 
theatres in town, and the neighboring city 
of Trenton offers adequate facilities for mild 
debauchery. 

“Some of the better New York and Phil- 
adelphia tailors have branch shops or repre- 

Continued on page 80 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


PHOTOGRAPH FOR ESQUIRE BY GILBERT SEEHAUSEN 


PRINCETON UNDERGRADUATE 


* away back at 


Even before Scott Fitzgerald wrote **This Side of Paradise,’ 
the beginning of the nineteen-twenties, the Princeton undergraduate typi- 
fied, at least for sports writers, this country’s standard of elegant indolence. 
Princeton has been called a gentlemen’s finishing school, the best country 
club in America, the fountainhead of young men’s fashions. And Princeton 
and smoothies. Ring W. Lardner, Jr., 


undergraduates have been called slicke 
one of the current crop of Princetonians-in-the-making, resents this cla: 
fication of human beings into types—which is all that keeps us from refer- 
ring to him, in this portrait study by Seehausen, as “а typical Princeton man.“ 


69 


70 


“You might at least take your hat off when yowre talking to a lady” 


ESQUIREC— Autumn, 1933 


AFRICA FOR ACTORS 


The leopard obliged. so did 
the buffalo—but the lion 
and the crocodile were coy 


by M. 6. HUBBARD 


ji OW did they 
get that?” 
Anyone who has 
taken an animal 
picture loves to 
hear that question 
in the audience. I 
can answer it as 
far as one picture 
goes. So I will take 
you behind the scenes of Untamed Africa,” 
an African adventure film that I had a hand 
in taking. 

We were in Northern Rhodesia about a 
hundred miles from the railroad line, in 
country that is reserved to the natives. There 
were no ranches or farms nearby, nothing 
but “bush” and native villages about every 
five or ten miles. To the east the grass coun- 
try stretched toward the Kafue river. To the 
west was broken bush country. Palm trees 
stabbed the skyline, above the flat-topped 
low trees. Such was our “location,” wher- 
ever and whenever there was something to 
"shoot" with the camera. 

Aside from the Hubbards, who had spent 
three years in Africa on an earlier trip, there 
were two camera men, George Noble and 
Earle Frank. None of us had taken an ani- 
mal film before, but we were going to on this 
trip, for First National Pietures. And we 
did. We took “Untamed Africa." And we 
paeked every thrill we eould into the picture; 
the catching of buffalo, leopards, lions; a lion- 
hyena fight; a grass fire; a tremendous 
native dance. 

We might spend a lifetime in the bush 
and never see the kind of action that thrills 
an audience. After all, most of the exciting 
wild life goes on at night. So there was only 
one thing to do. It was up to us to catch our 
animals and put them in such a position that 
they would at least seem to be doing what 
we wanted them to do. 

We were not going to stage anything that 
would be absurd. All we wanted to get was 
pictures of the animals doing the kind of 
thing they might do at night, or when we 
were not around with cameras set up. And 
first of all we had to catch them for some of 
the shots. 

We honeycombed the country with nooses, 
box-traps, pitfalls, every kind of native trap 
we could devise to catch the menagerie we 
needed. We even put out steel traps for the 
crocodiles. If you had sat by the Kafue or 
Zambesi as often as I had and watched them 
swim like a flash across the river and linger 
around in the hope of a tasty meal in the 
shape of yourself or your natives, you would 
have no compunctions aboui catching them 
in steel traps. They take a heavier toll of 
native life than any other beast. We once 
took a double handful of native trinkets out 
of a crocodile's stomach. No, they are not 
pleasant beasts. 

It was about nine o’clock in the morning. 
Wynant was off in the veldt with some boys 
digging the one truck out of the mud. The 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


boys who patroled the trap line eame tearing 
into camp. 

“Sirouwe! M'eoulu sterriek!"" A leopard 
is in a crocodile trap, and a big one. 

The camera men and I loaded the other 
truck with cameras, nets, a dozen boys, a 
couple of rifles and off we went. Neither of 
the men had ever seen a leopard outside a 
zoo. I had brought up several of them on 
our former trip. And I had seen a native 
shortly after he had been mauled by a leop- 
ard. Three of our dogs had been caught by 
leopards that used to chase them around the 
huts of the compound when we were in 
Portuguese East Africa. I had been spit at 
by a leopard when taking a careless mid- 
night walk and no trip I ever took seemed 
as long as the fifty yards I had had to walk, 
very slowly and deliberately, back to camp. 
So I knew something about leopards. 

"Sh! En econa lapa, douze" (He's there, 
near to us). 

We stopped the truck in the tall grass and 
quietly stole along the path. There he was, 
in a cleared patch, hugging the ground with 
his belly, only the white tip of his tail twiteh- 
ing, his green eyes glaring undying hatred. 

A growl, a bound, and he had dragged the 
trap and log anchor twenty yards towards 
us. So! I gripped my rifle and measured the 
distance to the nearest tree. That was a 
foolish precaution as I knew only too well 
that any leopard could make the tree before 
I could. It was impossible to tell whether 
he was caught by a toe or his whole foot. If 
only by the toe, the chances were he would 
be on us. 

George and Frank set up their cameras to 
the accompaniment of growls and charges. 
I kept the sight of my rifle on the leopard 
and directed the natives to stretch out the 
net and close in on him. 

Frank was in eestacy. What a close-up of 
a furious leopard! It was. But I had other 
things on my mind as well. Frank did not 
know leopards well. He crept in closer, 
closer still. The boys closed in with the net. 

“Now!” I shouted to them and we threw 
the net over the raging animal. Then we 
rushed in with forked sticks to hold down 
his head and paws while we tied him up. We 
had our leopard, and a beauty. He was full 
grown, beautifully marked and colored, and 
a magnificent study in green-eyed fury. 
Well trussed up, we put him on the truck 
and took him back to camp. 


Now we could take our picture of a leop- 
ard prowling along the verandah of our mud 
hut. That was legitimate. Plenty of leop- 
ards prowl on plenty of verandahs. A sta- 
tion master I knew had had his pet terrier 
snatched from a deck chair on his verandah 
while he was having dinner. 

We built a high wire fence in a semi-circle 
arcund the verandah of the hut and stretched 
wire across the windows. Colored calico 
curtains were the home-like touch. Then we 
backed the leopard’s cage up to the opening, 
drew up the door and let him out. 

Cautiously he erept out, and along the 
verandah, winding his way between the deck 
chairs and a table. His one idea was to es- 
eape. Back and forth he prowled, then took 
а flying, roaring leap toward the cameras. 
We held our breath, rifles covering him. He 
might find a weak spot, if he tried. We could 
not be too sure. He gave up in disgust and 
went back to the verandah. Then he noticed 
the windows. A way out? He put his paws 
on the edge of the window and looked in. No 
that would not do. He tried the other win- 
dow. Still sure there must be some way 
through those openings, he went back to the 
first window and repeated his performance. 
We were breathless with joy. If we had re- 
hearsed him, he could not have done a more 
convincing act. It looked just as though he 
were trying to get into the house instead of 
out and away. Staged? Yes, but as a legiti- 
mate play is staged. He was only doing 
something when and where we wanted him 
to do it instead of 
on his own. 

In somewhat the 
same way weputon 
a lion-hyena fight. 
We had caught 
the animals in box 
traps and wanted 
to use them dra- 
matically. So we 
built a wire run, 
covered it with grass and planted small 
trees. The setting looked natural. Then we 
dug a pit and covered it with heavy planks, 
with no opening except the small hole for 
the lens of the camera. Just in front of the 
hole we put a dead reed-buck, the camera 
man slipped into the hole and we were ready 
to start, hoping our actors would put on a 
good show. 

We let the hyena out of his cage and he 
pranced right up to the reed-buck. It looked 
very good to him. He sniffed it over and 
settled down to a good meal. Then we let the 
lioness out of her cage. Head up, feeling 
very gay, she pranced right up to the camera. 
The hyena quivered, but held his ground. 
Then Pasha, as we called the lioness, whirled 
on the hyena and with a blow of her big 
paw sent him whirling. Good girl! Just 
what we wanted. 

For all the world as though the reed-buck 
were her rightful kill she put her paw on it 
and fell too. Then the hyena came back, 

Continued on page 77 


71 


DRYPOINT BY JOHN GROTH 


“Me? I was a financial expert” 


К] 
N 


ESQ UIR E— Autumn, 1933 


ALIBI IN A ROADHOUSE 


A mystery story. with false 
clues and accidental lures, 


complete although compact 


by VINCENT STARRETT 


HE man called Smith—short and unim- 
aginative in appearance as his name— 
finished his coffee with an abrupt gesture 
and lighted a long cigar. After a 
moment he tilted back his chair and ; 
allowed his pale blue eyes to rest with | 
some appreciation on the half naked 
figures of the daneers. With apprecia- 
tion and with some embarrassment . . . 
After all, these twisting limbs and coiling, 
writhing torsos were not part of his custom- 
ary evening program. But they were—em- 
phatically—quite a spectacle! He blushed a 
little inward blush, remembering that he was 
а family man. 

Hamilton was saying: Ves, in spite of all 
the gilt and glitter, the necklaces and dinner 
eoats, and all the rest of it, I'm told it's quite 
a hangout for the leading crooks. They bring 
their women here to dine and dance; they 
mingle with the social demi-virgins—and 
under a top hat, after all, who is to tell the 
difference between a hoodlum and a broker?“ 

“Т am myself a broker," ventured B. Е. 
Smith, entering the conversation. ‘Surely no 
one would take me for a criminal . . . Or 
would they?" He laughed good humoredly. 

Teresa, the principal danseuse, was doing 
a partieularly snaky and rhythmie vulgarity 
with her hips abetted by her chorus 
From the gardens beyond the open sides of 
the Casino a little breeze blew pleasantly, 
from time to time, to clear the stagnant at- 
mosphere within. But in the corner where 
the musicians played their furious music, the 
perspiration stood in drops on the foreheads 
of the orchestra . . . The bulky violinist 
sweltered. 

What do you suppose are the dreams of a 
fat violinist, after a season of nights like 
this?" chuckled B. F. Smith, his eyes upon 
the musician. 

“He is looking at Teresa," Gary Hamilton 
replied. “Сап you doubt the nature of his 
dreams?" 

“T suppose it's really pretty rotten, all of 
it," said Naney Carroll idly. *You've been 
here often, I imagine?" 

“To the contrary," answered Hamilton, 
*it is my first visit. I know the place, how- 
ever, by repute. It has been open only for a 
fortnight.” He indicated the flying limbs and 
rippling torsos of the ballet . . . The mid- 
night floor show is reported to be the very 
latest in *undress'," he added, laughing. 

“The last word and the last stitch,” she 
agreed. Vou don't pay much attention toit." 

“T am less interested in that sort of thing 
than newspaper reports might lead you to 
imagine." He glanced for an instant at the 
magnificent wateh that was strapped around 
his wrist . . . Well, I fancy it is about over." 

“Then we ean dance again," said Elsie 
Archer. Her fatly languishing gaze rested 
for a moment on the slender elegance of 
Gary Hamilton, now deftly lighting a ciga- 
rette at the flame of one of the yellow candles 
burning on the table. 

“Speaking of criminals,” sad B. F. Smith 


ESQUIRE — Autumn, 1933 


abruptly, isn't that Madan at the corner 
table there?" 

“Who? What! Not Falkner Madan?” The 
two women and two men who made up the 
balance of the party twisted in their chairs 
and stared. 

"By Jove!” cried Hamilton. “I wonder 
what he's doing here? Funny I didn't notice 
him before. I must stroll around and have а 
talk with him." 

“Не just came in," continued B. F. Smith. 
“T saw him take his seat. Probably looking 
for those criminals you spoke of, Hamilton. 
Glad you think I don't resemble one! Or did 
you say I did?” 

Forsome moments they continued to stare, 
with varying emotions, at the figure of the 
eelebrated detective, seated just aeross the 
room... Then in а crash of brass, a sweep 
of strings, the spotlight faded on the last, re- 
tiring dancer . . . Teresa, drooping in the 
center of the drawn velvet eurtains. The fat 
violinist, his handkerchief tucked into his 
collar, drew his bow across his fiddle in the 
first bars of a dreamy waltz. His confréres 
joined him, and the customers piled out upon 
the floor to claim their partners. 

“T don’t much саге to dance," said Nancy 
Carroll. Can't we go out into the gardens? 
It's really much too warm to stay indoors." 

Hamilton mopped his brow. “І agree with 
you entirely. The river is just beyond, you 
know, with gondoliers and all the other trim- 
mings. Perhaps you’d rather float? There’s 
a ‘Lovers’ Lane’ across the stream that is 
said to be a perfect maze. You almost need a 
guide to lead you out.” 

Miss Archer thought her slippers would 
be ruined. “But I’m going anyway,” she 
said. Fancy! A lovers’ lane!" 

“No hoodlums, I suppose, at advan- 
tageous intervals, to relieve us of our 
jewels?” smiled B. Е. Smith. “I’m not sure 
we oughtn't to take Madan with us!” 

They stepped out into the coolness of the 
night and strolled down twisting paths under 
the glittering stars . . . Then the stream 
flowed darkly past their feet, and in the dis- 
tanee there was the sound of a guitar and 
someone singing 


“T don't see any gondoliers, however,” 
pouted Elsie Archer. 

“No matter," said Hamilton. The bridge 
is higher up... Do you see it, Coleman?" 

Rufus Coleman was lighting a mateh to 
see the path before him. 

“Not visible from here," said B. F. Smith. 
He stumbled, peering into the darkness, but 
Hamilton eaught and steadied him. 

Then a tiny pencil of light spurted from 
the tips of Coleman’s fingers, and he chuc- 
kled. Almost forgot I had this flashlight 
with me! It may save our lives before we're 
through." He exhibited with pride a slender 


, metal doodad for which he had paid a quar- 


ter in a ten-cent store . . . By its aid they 
reached a rustie wooden bridge, at last, and 
elattered merrily across into the deeper 
shadows of a wood .. . It was a jolly notion, 
Hamilton thought, to build aroadhouseon the 
border of a forest sanctuary... The fragrance 
of moist leaves tingled pleasantly in their 
nostrils as they pushed on into the darkness. 

The path was tortuous, between tall, arch- 
ing trees. Twice it doubled back upon itself. 
The little light danced eerily from tree to 
tree, illuminating the scene in shivery, reve- 
latory flashes . . . B. F. Smith clung grimly 
to the arm of Gary Hamilton, already 
slightly encumbered by Miss Archer 

"Damn it!“ shrilled the little broker in 
exasperation. "Shan't we go back, Hamil- 
ton? This makes me nervous." 

“I keep thinking I hear someone follow- 
ing us," said Elsie Archer. 

Miss Carroll said nothing. For some rea- 
son she was thinking of Teresa, drooping 
between red, parted curtains... 

But suddenly Hamilton's voiee was harsh 
and strident . . . “Му God, Coleman, what 
is that?" he eried. He stopped abruptly, 
peering ahead into the darkness. To your 
left there, in among the trees! Turn your 
light on it for a minute!" 

He freed himself from the embrace of B.F. 
Smith and Elsie Archer and strode swiftly 
to Coleman’s side. He seized the flashlight 
from the 
other’s 
grasp: « = = 
The light 
еіге1еа 
erratieally 
for an in- 
stant, 
among the 
trees. 
Then it 
rested on 
the crum- 
pled body 
of а man, 
face down- 
ward upon 
the turf. 

Miss 
Archer 
sereamed 
and flung 
Continued on page 89 


73 


GRANDSTAND 


Continued from page 30 

he recovered his full strength, though one eye con- 
tinued to pre him trouble. But Jack never again 
regained the same mental poise in the ring that he 
had possessed before he faced Tunney. It was 
firmly rooted in his mind that *a champion can not 
come back" and that the terrible beating he had 
taken from Gene had sapped his strength too much 
for a successful re-match. 

It was Dempsey's attitude more than his legs 
which whipped him at Chicago in the return bout. 
He could not get away from the idea that people 
had him pegged as a has-been and that what had 
happened to Jim Jeffries at Reno would happen to 
him. 'The most daring fighter of all time who had 
the gameness to stay on his feet at Philadelphia on 
a night when he was ill, did not have the courage 
to conquer himself. 

Athletes, except in very rare instances, do not 
go to pieces overnight. Only one man has beaten 
them and generally if they could retain confidence 
in themselves, they would have a good chance to 
regain their championships. Certainly, they should 
still be able to conquer the rest of their opponents. 
But such is not the case. 

The defeated champion loses his belief in himself 
along with his crown. He is swayed by what people 
say and the moth-eaten tradition that “they can’t 
come back." Sometimes the star is bewildered by 
the decisions of the officials or the roar of the 
crowd. 

Incentive melts away. The ex-champion says to 
himself: “I have already been at the top. The best 
that I can do is get back there again. What’s the 
use of going through all of the hard work and mak- 
ing the sacrifice which victory demands?” 

Some “wilt inside" when they so much as see a 
youthful rival and lose before the contest even be- 
gins. Norman Ross, The Big Moose" of swim- 
ming, whowas the greatest champion the game had 
known, went to pieces overnight. He won the 
Inter-Allied swimming championship for the 
United States single-handed, and then came back 
to victory again in the 1920 Olympics. 

Soon after his return home he one day watched a 
long-legged youngster swimming like mad in Lake 
Michigan. The moment he saw him, Ross after- 
wards told me that he some way sensed that he had 
met hismatch. He called the boy out of the water, 
found out that he knew nothing about the science 
of swimming, but was anxious to learn. So he 
arranged a tryout for him at the Illinois Athletic 
Club tank in Chicago. The youth broke the pool 
record the first time he swam there and within a 
few months shattered many of the world’s best 
mark’s, winning international fame for America 
and several Olympic championships 

Blissful ignorance of the history of swimming, 
coupled with youthful confidence, made this boy 
unbeatable and brought him immortal athletic 
fame as “the human fish” and later screen glory as 
“Tarzan Weismuller.” 

A friend writes of Johnny: “Не couldn't swim. 
His father couldn’t swim. His mother couldn’t 
swim. He didn’t have any yen to become a swim- 
mer. He went into the water the same as a kid 
taking medicine. Yet he came out the fastest 
swimmer in the world and with a physique which 
has made him into a motion picture idol.” 

While Weismuller has risen in the world, Norman 
Ross, “Тһе Big Moose" who discovered him, has 
been almost entirely forgotten as an athlete. Ross 
lost that “something” which made him the greatest 
champion of his time, during the first few minutes 
that he watched the Austrian boy in Lake Michi- 
gan. Norman had beaten every swimming star of 
his generation, but he could not conquer his own 
inferiority complex or overcome the knowledge 
that his friends were saying that Johnny was going 
to be faster than himself. 

As a matter of fact, there are certain distances 
where “Тһе Big Moose,” if he had only believed in 
himself, could always have beaten Johnny Weis- 
muller. He had greater strength, a cooler head and 
more stamina. Yet he wilted in a single day. 

This same timidity has played havoe with the 
swimming career of Duke Kahanamoku, the fa- 
mous Hawaiian champion who won the Olympic 
hundred meters title in 1912 at Stockholm and 
again at Antwerp in 1920. Duke finished second to 
Weismuller at Paris in ’24 and now that Johnny is 
out of amateur competition, he is again the best in 
the world, even though he has turned the corner 
past forty. 

No one has ever broken his world's record for 
fifty yards of 22 3-5 seconds, though Weismuller 
tried on many occasions along with countless other 
speedsters during the last twenty years. Duke has 
no confidence in himself. He has heard the world 
say that he is too old for the game and was never 
in a class with Johnny Weismuller, and he has 
believed what he has heard. 

Bobby Jones, the only golfer ever to win the 
American amateur and open, and British amateur 
and open championships in the same year, has suf- 
fered a similar reaction. Just as soon as he retired 


74 


from competition he “let down." His scores in 
exhibition and practice rounds have been far below 
his former standard and it is doubtful indeed if he 
could ever reach the top again. 

It is not a matter oF condition with Bobby or 
the other ex-champions. They have simply lost 
their will to win. Most of them have in the final 
analysis, I believe, been dependent upon outside 
opinion. The grandstand has more than played 
its part. 

Tennis fans will recall when the graceful Mlle. 
Suzanne Lenglen first came to the United States to 
participate in our National women’s champion- 
ships at Forest Hills. She possessed all of the glori- 
ous confidence which comes from a long series of 
brilliant victories. She had been winning titles 
since she was seventeen and in her early twenties 
she was not only universally recognized as the finest 
feminine player in the world, but the greatest of all 
time. Then she faced Mrs. Molla Mallory, the 
United States champion whom she had beaten 
abroad, but who was the favorite of American 
tennis fans. 

The Frenchwoman sensed the confidence of her 
opponent, playing in her own “backyard” with the 
gallery behind her. The great Lenglen who had 
never been beaten, suddenly felt deathly ill. The 
weight of a nation seemed to beat down on her 
racket. Her arms grew heavy from returning Mal- 
lory’s steady serves. She lost faith in herself. She 
thought of the responsibility of winning for France 
and the strain was too much. She was on the verge 
of collapse before the match had gone two sets and 
she was forced to abandon play. That was her 
single defeat during more than a decade of cham- 
pionship tennis. The grandstand was entirely re- 
sponsible. She allowed the spectators to defeat her 
—not Molla Mallory. 

Five years later at Cannes, Suzanne Lenglen 
faced another great American champion who had 
not yet come into her own—Helen Wills. This time, 
the French woman had the gallery with her. She 
made a grand entrance, arriving from her villa at 
Nice in a Voisin motor car. She darted with a 
springy step from her machine and threw a light 
kiss to the crowd. She was greeted by a mighty 
roar. Vive la Suzanne! Vive la belle Suzanne! 

An army of camera men assaulted her. She posed 
and smiled for them and later stood beside Helen 
Wills for more pictures. Helen wore a rose-colored 
sweater, a middy blouse, and a pleated skirt. She 
looked about as emotional as Buster Keaton. 
Suzanne was resplendent in a salmon-colored, 
closely-knitted sweater and a short, white skirt, 
with a salmon-colored head-dress, which was al- 
most a turban, to match. The California champion 
was stolid and sturdy; the girl from France was 
effervescent, like the champagne of the famous 
Reims Valley. They formed a great contrast— 
placidity versus impetuosity. 

But the ruling spirit of that battle was the grand- 
stand itself. Suzanne had the confidence of know- 
ing almost every spectator was cheering for her and 
her play became superhuman. Helen Wills fought 
courageously and well, but the odds were against 
her and she finally lost 6-3, 7-5. Yet in defeat, little 
“Poker Face" had conquered. 

Suzanne Lenglen never met her again. She pre- 
ferred to retire rather than face such an opponent. 
Lenglen later toured the United States as a profes- 
sional, appearing in many exhibitions, but she was 
no longer the champion of former days. 'Those two 
sets at Cannes marked the zenith of her play. 

Meeting Helen Wills had much the same effect 
upon her, as did his professional football debut on 
Red Grange, the galloping ghost of Illinois. Red, 
who had flashed to national gridiron fame as a 
sophomore against Michigan and who had come 
back to glory in his senior year against Pennsyl- 
vania, as the greatest half-back in an open field 
that the game has ever known, always played with 
the grandstand behind him in college competition. 
With the gallant Earl Britton to run interference 
and a great line to shove him into the open, Grange 
relied upon his genius to carry the ball. No man 
was ever a more brilliant master of the art of 
changing pace or of shaking off tacklers by a simple 
twist of his wriggling hips than the Illinois half- 
back. Behind his natural ability was the inspira- 
tion of the erowd which gave him confidence to do 
the impossible. 

In his first professional game, Grange found him- 
self in an entirely different atmosphere. The crowd 
was cynical, skeptical and unemotional. 'The play- 
ers were the same. Team spirit was lacking and in 
its place were cold hard fundamentals. Men ran 
interference like clockwork, but without enthu- 
siasm. No one was ready to “іе for dear old 
Rutgers" that Grange might gallop to glory. 

The boy, if he made good at all, would have to 
do so entirely on his own. Red realized that his 
ability was beyond and not behind the line of scrim- 
mage. He tried valiantly to break away. The in- 
spiration was lacking. The crowd had paid to see 
Grange run and when he was smothered on almost 
every play, they soon lost interest. No one was 
more alive to their indifference than the red-head. 


He tried his best, but it was not good enough. 
Though Grange later remade himself into a fine 
all-around football player, he was never again the 
ghost of the gridiron. His genius deserted him 
overnight, just as the spark of immortality was 
snuffed out of Hal Chase, the greatest first baseman 
of all time, when he was barred from organized ball. 
Looking back at the record of our heroes of sport, 
it seems to me that publie opinion—the grand- 
stand—is the most important factor in victory or 
defeat. Men are made in striving to give their best 
and when they have reached the top and incentive 
no longer burns so brightly, and they hear and read 
that they are old men” in competition, the ma- 
jority soon commence to believe it themselves, and 
the first good boy who happens along, sends them 
hurtling down the hill to athletic oblivion. 


THE CHECK-BOOK 
Continued from page 27 
handed it to her. 

“Tm late.“ 

He fetched his hat, but as he opened the front 
door, she called to him. 

“Oh, darling!“ 

Jes, dear, what is it?” 

“Ts this check all right?” 

“Of course it’s all right,” he said impatiently. 
“Other people don’t write checks the haphazard 
way you do. I keep my check-book in order. I 
know exactly how much I have in the bank at any 
given moment." 

“You really think it’s all right?” 

“I know it’s all right," he shouted, angrily. 
“What could be wrong with it?” 

“I just thought perhaps you ought to have 
signed it,” said Mrs. Medway, ever so gently. 


BREAK EM GENTLE 


Continued from page 54 

rider from up north, and that night bein the end of 
the doins and some aimin to get an early start 
home, they all agreed that a little celebratin on 
their own would jest set them right for the hard 
work ahead of them on their home range. 

Where do cowboys go to for their fun? After a 
hard winter, a tough spring round-up where the 
grub and the work is the same every day, with their 
minds on their work and plenty of hard ridin all 
day and their hard soogans at night - without sight 
of a skirt exceptin someone brings one of them 
magazines with picters of actresses in em, where 
would you have gone, dear reader? Yep—that's 
where they headed for. They was a district in that 
porn where the lights was red and the carpet was 
thick. 

The Kid was introduced to the first filly he ever 
saw that didn’t shy or look a bit like the gawky 
she-kids up the river. This one had a different com- 
plexion than them red-faced kids. Also, she was not 
a bit bashful like they was. While the others was 
drinkin, she takes this Kid up to her web, like the 
old-fashioned spider does, and he yes-mams and 
no-mams her to death and, never havin met so 
innocent a youngster, she takes a shine to him, and 
he, poor innocent kid that he was, he goes for her 
in a big way too. 

Eunice was the name she went by. Mamie was 
her right name, and seventeen was her age. They 
start young in the oldest profession. She was only 
at it a year and, having come from a family of the 
plow, she had a little money saved up, and when 
that kid came into her life she jest naturally knew 
that she wasn’t cut out for the work she was doin. 

She was a sweet kid and to see her in ginghams 
no-one would have been the wiser for what she had 
been. This isn’t a guessin contest, but you guessed 
right again. Sure, they was married the next 
morning. 

The other day at Walla-Walla—T'll be a son of a 
rattlesnake, who do I run acrosst at the old entry 
office? Don’t guess this time. This is about five 
years later. There is the Kid—a bit older, a little 
heavier around the shoulders, but the same inno- 
cent kind, and there is Mamie wearin a ridin outfit 
and dressed up typical cowgirl fashion. Do I hear 
right? The old girl is enterin in the women's bronk- 
ridin and the Kid is goin in for bronkriding and 
bulldoggin. 

There ain't much left to tell. He teached her 
plenty. They can give the best of them a run for 
any sort of money. Don't be a bit surprised if you 
hear the Kid wins the title of Champion Bronk- 
rider of the World. O yes—they have two kids of 
their own, they have their own little spread and 
another surprise for you, gentle reader, old Flap- 
jack, as good а cow-man as ever put an iron to a 
hide, is foreman there when the two bosses is out 
competin, not so much for the money they gets as 
for the glory they is in it, and for the privilege of 
bein called top hands by their own breed. 

This is supposed to be cow-talk, but it jest goes 
to prove that a bad bronk and a bad woman goes 
hand in hand, they can be gentled, and—made 
GOOD. 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


А FEW WORDS 


IN PRAISE OF 


THE IRON HAT 


ES QUIRE—Autumzn, 1933 


OU may be one of those who prefer 

to take their stripes neat, although 
these wide spaced stripes are very very 
eustom and would be classified by any of 
the better tailors as “distinctly a gentle- 
man’s suiting if you know what I mean 
by that." And you may not go for the 
very British note of the wrapped um- 
brella. But the rest of the outfit is next- 
to-compulsory, if it is important to you 
that your elothes should deny the sus- 
picion of being hold-overs from a past 
administration. Take the breast pocket 
handkerchief, for example. They don't 
come any smarter than these new mad- 
der print gum twills and foulards. And 
the new printed poplins, (an unusual 
neckwear note for the Autumn season, 
but then this season is unusual) are the 
perfect and proper foil, with their indis- 
tinet and subdued patterning, for the 
small but distinet checks that are so 


good in shirtings right now. The newest 
thing in soft collars, both attached and 
separate, is the eyelet pinhole for the 
placement of the collar pin. This is fea- 
tured in the newest examples of both the 
short rounded and short pointed collars 
(they show in the sketch on page 105 
better than they do here). Certainly the 
bowler hat is an essential ingredient in 
the smartness of this outfit as a whole, 
being every bit as important to the gen- 
eral effect as the off-white gloves and the 
black blucher shoes. And just as cer- 
tainly it ought to be included in the 
wardrobe of every man who makes any 
pretension whatsoever to good groom- 
ing. If it's light in weight (look out for 
the English ones, most of them weigh 
nigh onto а ton) and properly propor- 
tioned, it's as comfortable as a hat сап 
be. And no hat, not even the Homburg, 
has the dignity of a well-fitted derby. 


75 


N its every line, this outfit hums а 
quiet but distinguishable refrain of 
“This is New York." One need not be 
reminded that New York is not Amer- 
ica, but at the same time it is worth re- 
membering that Broadway is not New 
York. And, wherever you may wear it, 
an outfit for town use could do much 
worse than suggest that you frequent 
only the more genteel sections of the big 
metropolis. After all, a topcoat for town 
wear should take on an entirely different 
appearanee from that of one originally 
intended for use over a saddle-kit or 
other country clothes. It isn't so much 
a matter of fabrie—in fact, the soft han- 
dling cloths that were formerly restricted 
to country clothes are now the essence 
of smartness for town—it’s the model 
that makes the big difference. This one 
is fly-fronted with peak lapels and slant- 
ing skirt pockets and it makes up like a 


million dollars in soft finished dark gray 


eassimere carrying a self herringbone 
pattern. For devotees of the derby hat 
this coat is perfection, as color, pattern 
and model lend themselves admirably to 
the semi-formal air a derby creates. For 
those who do not relish this degree of 
dignity, a permissible variant is the 
Homburg hat, particularly in the some- 
what subdued shade of green that is new 
and very smart this season. With pat- 
tern playing such an important part in 
clothes, solid colored neckties that are 
patterned only by their own weave af- 
ford a means of relief from the danger 
of piling up too much pattern in one 
outfit. Note the cuffless trousers—not 
а new note but one that is enjoying re- 
newed popularity. A don’t on this outfit 
—don't wear dark-colored gloves—the 
contrast is important. Off-white pig; or 
light wash leathers are best. 


A TOWN TURNOUT 


WITH A STRONG 


EASTERN ACCENT 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


PUBLICITY BY CUTTLEBONE 
Continued from page 49 

minutes to make it! Can he do it? The people 
stands up and hollers! They cheers, they yells, 
they laughs—" 

"Yeah," I says. "They laughs. You bet they 
laughs... we ain't going to do it.“ 

Just then up comes Jimmy. Slim tells him his 
idea, and asks him can Cuttlebone get round in 
twenty-five minutes. It don't seem any horse can 
take that long to go four miles, but Cuttlebone 
can do a lot of things other horses can't. Jimmy 
scratches his yellow hair, and his little pink face 
twists up, and he says: 

“Yeh.” Both Slim and me gets surprised at that. 
Most always Jimmy only nods his head. 

Well,“ I tells Slim, I hope you had fun think- 
ing of this, because we ain't going to do it." 

“Gee,” says Slim, “even you ain't always wrong! 
Sure we ain't going to do it and why? Because 
I done it already! You guys is lucky to have me 
for a partner, or you—" 

“You done what?” I hollers. *You—you—you 
—My God! Fifty bucks for a fool stunt that—and 
now we got no money to light out if that damn 
sheriff turns up! Say, I got a good mind to—” 

“No you ain't!“ comes back Slim. “No you 
ain’t. You got a bad one! But it don’t matter— 
not so long as you got me too.” 

There wasn’t nothing a fellow could say, and 
Jimmy of course didn’t say nothing, like he 
always says. Anyway, the money was gone, and 
it was too late. 

Well, next day we take Cuttlebone out to the 
track, and it’s all nice and green, with lots of 
pretty girls talking, and people in cars, and a few 
of them sitting up on those old fashioned ricketty 
stage coaches rich people is crazy about. I’m 
still sore at Slim, but the sheriff ain’t showed up, 
and after a while the first race is over, and we pull 
Cuttlebone into the paddock, and saddle hin up. 

“Here, ВШ,” says Slim, “you can lead him 
round.” 

“What the hell?” I says. “I ain’t no stable boy.” 

“Don’t be a fool!” says Slim. “All the rich 
owners would like leading their horses, only they 
got to give employment, ain’t they? So they’s 
generous about it. I’m generous, too—I’ll let 
you do it.” 

I ain’t sure about Slim ever being generous, but 
it sounds okay, and I leads Cuttlebone around, 
feeling sorry for the rich guys, and them not able 
to lead their own horses. But after a while folks 
start laughing at Cuttlebone being in that race, 
and I sees that Slim wasn’t so generous. It did 
look silly, them other horses—five, there was—all 
being cleanbred, and Cuttlebone clumsy and 
common. 

But it ain’t long before starting time, and 
pretty soon that little bugle blows. 

“Come over here, boy!“ hollers Slim. 

“What the hell?” I says, leading Cuttlebone 
oven like a kitten on a string. Who you calling 
boy?’ 

“Shut ир!” Slim hisses. “We got to act like we 
got a stable boy, ain't we? Got to act like we're 
rich and generous, ain't we?" 

He fiddles with the saddle like he really knew 
how, and then chucks Jimmy up on top of it. 
Cuttlebone goes onto the track with the other 
horses, and me and Slim hops it into the stands. 

Way down at the start Cuttlebone is behaving 
quiet, like he don't know what it's all about, but 
the thoroughbreds is running around like mice, 
and it's two minutes before they get lined up. 

„Ain't you excited?" asks Slim. 

“Excited about getting to be a famous fool?" 
I says, disgusted like. “ОҺ, yeah!" 

And just then the little white flag comes down, 
and the crowd whoops. The horses is off! The 
cleanbreds all in a bunch, thundering along—but 
before they get to the first fence, our old walrus is 
strung out behind. He jumps good enough, but 
it's wonderful how he can't run. 

Well, first thing I know, two of the thorough- 
breds falls down! Then another one falls down, 
and now there is two horses way in front and 
Cuttlebone way behind. By gosh, I says to my- 
self, maybe we're going to be third! I pinches 
Slim to see am I dreaming. He hollers, so I see 
Iain't. 

Then he hits me a poke in the ribs. 

“Ouch!” I says. “What the hell?" 

“Cuttlebone’s tired!" he says. 

For once Slim is right. Cuttlebone is sure 
doing bad. He don't even jump good, and he's 
running pretty near stationary. We watches him 
mighty hard. 

АП of а sudden I looks around. 

Hey!“ I says. What the hell?" I says. Where's 
them other horses?" 

Funny thing, but they was both down! Down 
on their noses! 

Cuttlebone's the only horse left running! Of 
course, he ain't hardly running, but he sure is left. 

“Damn it!" says Slim. Damn it to hell! There 
goes our publicity—ain't that the worst break?" 


ESQUIR Е —4utumn, 1933 


“You old fool!" I says. I'm so excited I near 
bust. We're going to win!" I says, and lets out 
a holler. 

Everybody’s doing likewise—yelling and scream- 
ing. Then I remembers something awful—how 
about them twenty-five minutes? Slim pulls out 
his watch—Cuttlebone’s got to hurry! I look out 
onto the track. He’s struggling along. Only one 
more fence. He lepps at it. He don’t lepp high 
enough. He hits on his nose, Jimmy pops off, 
and hits on his nose! 

The crowd quits yelling. It’s awful quiet. 

Jimmy gets up and goes after Cuttlebone, that’s 
eating grass. He catches the reins—and then 
doggone if he don’t go back to the fence, sit on it, 
and light a cigarette! 

We look at the watch again. Jimmy’s right. 
It’s too late. I think how Slim is a fool to get us 
into this. 

And sudden Slim ups and makes a noise like a 
sheep, and goes running down the stands and out 
onto the course as quick as when that Pennsyl- 
vania sheriff was after him. I follows, wondering 
what fool stunt he’s up to now. 

I gets there just as Slim yanks Jimmy off the 
fence. 

“Get оп!” he yells. “Get on, you fool kid!" 

He slings Jimmy onto that saddle so hard the 
kid bounces like he was made of rubber. Then he 
fetches Cuttlebone a wallop on his backside, and 
sings out: “Steer him good, Jimmy, steer him 
good, or I'll cut your little heart out and eat it!“ 

Maybe it was the belting he got, and maybe it 
was the yelling, but whatever it was, Cuttlebone 
jumps like he’d sat on a tack! He goes down to 
that finish line like it was home and mother, and 
right behind him every inch of the way is Slim, 
insulting the old goat’s ancestors at every jump, 
and whopping that poor horse so he wouldn’t sit 
down for a week. 

I catches up just as they cross the line. 

“What the hell, y’old loony?” I hollers. It's 
too late, time’s up!" I says. “What the hell?" 

Slim is panting and wheezing and making horrid 
noises. 

“Old loony yerself!" he gasps out. “Old loony 
yerself! Ain’t ye got no sense? We won the race, 
that’s what! Twenty-five minutes? What for? 
Cuttlebone’s the winner, ain’t he? Can he finish 
fifteen minutes after himself? Sure he can’t! So 
we won the race—and boy, did we get publicity!” 

He looks up at the crowd, which is near dying, 
what with laughing and hollering. 

“Vision,” Slim says. ‘‘Vision, that’s what it is! 
Bill, you sure are lucky you got a partner with 
vision!“ 


AFRICA FOR ACTORS 
Continued from page 71 

tried to get at the buck. Pasha was in a rage. 
The hyena, with his back to the wall and no way 
of escape, put up a fight. The dust flew, the growls 
and shrieks were deafening. Their blood was up 
and they fought over that buck without giving 
any quarter. It was perfect. The cameras ground 
until we had enough, then we opened the hyena’s 
cage and he gladly went to cover. We left Pasha’s 
cage open with water in it, and when she had had 
enough buck she went home and George could 
crawl out of his dusty hole. 

But every scene is not a success. We dreamed of a 
lion and a crocodile meeting at night over a kill. 
In the fitful light of flares such a scene should be 
tremendous. We had a big lion and a twelve foot 
crocodile, so we began preparations. An enclosure 
was erected on the edge of the water. Surely the 
crocodile would try to get to water and on his way 
he would meet the lion. 

On a black night, when the mosquitoes were 
stinging like mad, we let the lion loose in the en- 
closure, near the water. A few feet above him we 
brought in the well roped crocodile and then set up 
the cameras. All was ready. We lighted the flares. 
The crocodile was loose. Now for the action! 

Action? Nothing moved but the maddening 
mosquitoes. The precious flares from our limited 
supply burned on. The crocodile refused to budge. 
He lay in one spot, playing possum. Occasionally 
his evil green eyes blinked. That was the only move 
he made. The lion squatted under a small tree and 
stayed there. We poked them, we shouted, we 
coaxed, we teased. No. They would not budge. The 
mosquitoes chewed us, the flares burned out. We 
had to admit defeat. Lions and crocodiles, we 
learned, prefer to stay apart. 

The reputation of the buffalo is such that we 
were all on edge when we began our buffalo work. 
They are wily, vindictive beasts and two thousand 
pounds of it at that. They charge with their eyes 
open; back-track to lie in wait for you. Oh, they 
are full of unpleasant habits when they have been 
wounded or annoyed. And we were certain they 
would be annoyed when stampeded or caught. 

A herd of about two hundred came by our camp 
every night on their way to water. They showed 
not the least concern about us, but passed so close 
to the huts and tents we could hear them breathe. 


Nothing could have been more convenient. We 
studied their habits, knew when they went to 
water, when they returned, what patch of shady 
bush they grazed in during the daytime. 

Yet preparations for the stampede were simple. 
There was little we could do but force the buffalo 
to stampede toward the truck and then take the 
picture. The truck was camouflaged with long 
grass, so that we should be as inconspicuous as 
possible. A high platform was built on the chassis 
хо that we should get one picture from a high angle. 
The other camera was set up on the body of the 
truck. I was to drive. George, Frank and I ar- 
ranged signals so that I should know when to move 
and how. It would be impossible to hear voices 
above the noise of the engine and in the midst of 
the excitement. I had a small De Vrei camera 
along in case I could get another angle. 

Wynant and his boys went one way. We went 
another so that the noise of the truck would not 
disturb the grazing herd. We planned to meet at a 
given vlei (an open grassy stretch) where the buf- 
falo were generally to be found. Wynant was to 
drive the buffalo across the vlei and toward the 
truck and the rest would follow. There could be 
nothing more certain than that about such a plan. 

We hacked our way through miles of bush, came 
on the open vlei. On the edge of the bush across the 
stretch of grass we could just see a black mass, a 
cloud of dust moving toward us. The herd was on 
its way. We could just make out the black dots 
running on the heels of the herd, barely hear the 
shouts of the drivers. 

Then the mass of animals veered at right angles 
to the truck. A rifle boomed. The herd whirled 
around and charged in the opposite direction. Nerv- 
ously I drew the truck nearer. Again the buffalo 
turned on their tracks. The rifle boomed again. 
We were almost in despair. It looked as though 
they would never get the herd going in the direc- 
tion of the truck, toward the bush back of us into 
which we thought they would take refuge. 

Cautiously I moved the truck farther in. We 
could not tell exactly what was going on and feared 
to spoil any plan, by being too conspicuous. Still 
the herd tore back and forth in the middle of the 
vlei, still too far away for the cameras. 

More shots, shouts, and the herd turned toward 
us. Hurriedly I drove the truck forward, stopped 
at the signal. They were on us now. The whole herd 
trooped by, the cows, the calves, and the heavy 
bulls that weighed at least a ton, their great heads 
weighted down with the tremendous curving horns 
and massive boss. 

A big bull turned off from the herd, headed 
toward the truck, head low. I crept to the running 
board with the De Vrei. 

„He's charging! I’m going to shoot!" That from 
George above me. 

“No, he’s wounded. Hold оп!” I shouted back. 
I wanted a picture of that big head coming right 
into the camera. He came on. The rifle crashed and 
he fell a few feet from the truck. We had to stop 
him before he was on us. He probably thought he 
was turning into long grass, that being the grass- 
covered truck. 

The rest af the herd pounded past, oblivious to 
the commotion. Then we spotted a smaller black 
thing loping on the trail of the big brutes. Yelps of 
joy from the dogs, shouts from the boys. A calf! 

“Catch him!" we all shouted at once. 

Breathless, exhausted, the dogs and beaters were 
after him. A lunge, a flying tackle, but Johnnie 
missed him. Up and after him again. He did not 
look so small now. The herd was out of sight in the 
bush, but none of us forgot that an angry cow 
might come charging back. 

The boys closed in. Now! With a last exhausted 
whoop the boys made a flying rush, grabbing any 
part of hoof, horn or tail that came their way. The 
calf was down, overpowered by sheer numbers. 
The ropes were rushed up, and the youngster was 
tied securely and put on the truck. We had made a 
beginning on the buffalo sequence. One stamped- 
ing herd, one calf caught. We felt it was а good 
beginning. 


BELLISSIMA 

Conlinued from page 19 

stairs. Richard watched him out of sight. Then he 
walked with the girl towards the exit. As she 
looked at him she smiled again. 

“Yes, we say that for ‘good-bye,’ but sometimes 
we do not like to say it," he said in a low tone. It 
was the most glorious moment in his life when he 
took her bare arm at the dangerous corner of the 
stairway. Down below, in the brilliant street, a 
erowd of boys gathered about a long and splendid 
car. The fat young man sat at the wheel and gave 
an impatient toot on the horn. 

“Со back!" she said to Richard at the foot of the 
stair, smiling into his eyes. She told him her name. 
“Come and see me in Hollywood,” she said, and 
gave him a quick laughing kiss, and ran out into 
the Neapolitan sunshine, out of his life, and got 
into the car. Richard, in the dim doorway, staring, 
saw her smiling to herself as she vanished. 


77 


THE LEASE OF LUST 


Story of Stephen. the first 
of a sequence of narrative 
poems on the deadly sins 


by AUDREY WURDEMANN 


Warm in a chalice 
Far in the palace 

Of purple light, 
Stephen lay sleeping, 
Easily reaping 

'The dreams of night, 


Wakened for loving, 
And loving asleep 

Into а moving 
Shadow-deep, 


Winged, with the waters 
Of lust around him, 
Glad that the daughters 

Of Eve had found him, 


Drifting and drowning, 
Asleep, awake, 

And his heart pounding 
As a heart could break, 


And so, uneven, 
Both god and human, 
Was Stephen, Stephen, 


First with woman. 


She wasn’t young, and she was black, a 
breeder 

Of lust and bearing. In the warm slow dusk 

She held a white child naked on her hip, 

Rocking from foot to foot. Her arms were 
bare; 

Her scratched legs shiny bare; her black 
feet splayed 


Into the dust. 


sweated, 


She fanned herself and 


And rolled her eyes and moved away from 
him 
As heifers had upon the farm; he’d seen 


them. 


A young girl came to the doorway, tall and 


strong, 

Just become woman, blond and apple-bright, 

And stepped outside. Stephen, at the house- 
corner, 

Saw the last sunlight glint along her shoul- 
ders, 

Through the thin dress, and ripple on her 
skirt 

Snug over sturdy hips. 


“What do you want?” 
“A hot day," Stephen said. "I'm tired, 
riding, 
And thirsty, too. Could you give me a drink, 
And set me right?” The girl went to the well. 
He heard the plop of the bucket, the sound 
of water 
Being drawn and dipped. She brought a 
dripping cup. 


He sat down on the steps. 


Who keeps this farm?“ 
“My father." He looked up at her. “Га like 
To ask him about stopping here a while. 


I've worked on farms before.“ 


"Father's in town; 
Father and mother both; they won't be back 
Till morning." 
It pleased Stephen to find the women 
Alone.“ It was a long day. Could I stay 


Here over night, and see him in the morning? 


Iean sleep anywhere. I am good 
At taking up odd corners.” 


Her eyes widened, 
And a slow blush reddened her face, her 
throat. 
He knew her body blushed. 


It was quiet there, 
And gnarled old fruit-trees blossomed to the 
door 
And dropped white petals thick about the 
house. 
There were odors of the barn, and blooming 
lilies, 
And pink sweet william, odors that the sun 
Intensified. There were the farmyard sounds 
That he had heard so long. The petals fell 
Over them, making fragrant silky patterns 
Along the walk. 


Inside, she made a supper, 
And set the kitchen table, and they ate, 
Speaking in monosyllables. Stephen knew, 
With some old instinct, of the tension women 
Create. He was at home and well-contented 
With this most primitive and animal 
Triangle of two women and a man. 
The girl talked most; the negro woman rolled 
Her eyes and padded softly. She set the child 
Down on the floor, and stooped over a wash- 
tub, 
Still stepping as she stooped, her broad hips 
wide 
As some fat heifer's. She was tied to the tub 
As he had tied the heifers. 


This he knew, 
Having lived among the cattle, but the girl 
Was pleasant and strange, a litheness and 
a grace, 


But solid and well-built, moving quietly 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


About the kitehen, reaching above her head, 
Laughing back in his eyes. Here was a woman 
Requiring courtship; she was desirable, 
And tremulous and teasing; he had no words 
To answer her, but the other was animal, 
And that he knew. 


It was a hot dark night, 
When the dogs howled and the old house was 
alive, 
Creaking with shadows, a house of sleepless- 
ness. 
One of the children fretfully eried upstairs. 
He lay awake, and heard the girl go by, 
And saw the grey blur that her body made, 
Moving softly. She left the door ajar, 
And he stirred doubtfully, thinking of the 
white skin 
And the long blossoming body and laughing 
mouth, 


And he would make its laughter. 


Then the stairs 

Creaked under a blacker shadow. The black 
woman 

Came down from putting the children to 
bed. He moved 

From under his blanket. The shadow stalked 
ahead, 

And with slow haste another shadow 
followed, 


And a door creaked and closed. 


Later, he heard 
A whimpering, but it was not the children, 
A low monotonous crying, and a door 


Swung sharply shut. 


It was nearly morning. 
Stephen went in the early false flame of 
dawn, 
Hastily saddling, satisfied and sleek, 
From that restless house where only the 


children slept. 


Walk very lightly, 
Whistle as you go, 
Leave long strides 


In the settling snow, 


Walk as the wind wills, 
Go where you must, 

Make a sharp shadow 
Along the yellow dust. 


There’s always a window, 
A face looking out; 
Laugh to her, sing to her, 


Turn you about, 


Go up the steps, 
Stay for an hour, 
Take from the jasmine 


A fragrant flower, 


Wear it a while, 
Remember, be glad; 
When you’re old and unloving 


You'll have what you've had. 


There's always a window, 
There's always a girl 
Who will give a bright blessing, 


A kiss, and a curl 


To the boy who loves lightly 
And leaves all of that, 

With a red game-cock’s feather 
Stuck in his hat. 


Stephen the lover, Stephen the leman 
Left the boy he was on the farm, a blur, 
And any man with a thirst for women 
Can find a woman thirstier, 
And it was easy to go sinning 
After the sin began to burn. 
There were enough for a ready winning, 
To lie with him in the listing fern 
With green boughs over, and sun and 
shadow, 
To pull dusk down like the death of love, 
With a great rose glow over woods and 
meadow, 
And nothing to wish or be thinking of, 
To lead him out of the winter’s sorrow 
Into a warm coccoon of sleep, 
When the star-eyed frost on the following 
morrow 


Covered their window finger-deep. 


He left no chip of his heart as token; 
He took a kiss and he gave a kiss, 
But he would go; if their hearts were broken, 
They could mend them as well as his. 
And he said as he went, Goodbye, my dear. 
Remember the wisdom of sudden going. 
Forget our time in a day or a year, 
Now another wind is awake and blowing. 
We take our leave as we took our pleasure; 
I paid my debt, and you paid me. 
It was good for an hour, for an hour's 
measure, 
And you are free, and I am free. 
I made no promises, break no trusts; 
I said I loved you, and so I do; 
In a world of loving, а world of lusts, 
This is the love to which I am true: 
The pride that breaks and is proud of 
breaking, Ў 
The secret sin that is shameless ever, 
The slakened thirst that thirsts in slaking, 
The changing passion, the changeless 
fever. 
And I love you always in every woman, 
And please myself with my final breath. 
The less of lust there is in a human, 
The less of glory, the less of death: 
The pinnacle splits; the shaken idol 
Topples to dust with a little ery; 
The death of a god is suicidal, 


But a million gods remain to die!" 


O Stephen was a lover, a lover brave and 
bold, 
But the hotter burns the fire, the chillier's 
the cold 
When all the glow is out to ash, and grey 
supplaats the gold. 
O Stephen was a lover, a lover gay and 
bold, 
Whom many a woman tried to keep, and no 
one woman could hold, 
But all the fire is out to ash, the ashes 
turning cold, 
And who'll be loving Stephen, now Stephen’s. 
growing old? 


ESQUIRE —Autumn, 1923 


WHAT A MARRIED MAN 
SHOULD KNOW 
Continued from page 37 

It is naturally impossible within the limits of a 
magazine article to treat, even superficially, of all 
that a married man should know, as a house-broke 
husband, and thereby let him keep as much as an 
armed truce in the home. It might however be 
summed up in the phrase, addressed to the wife 
by the husband: Don't shoot! I'll come down.” 
There are nevertheless certain situations which 
you can avoid, if you'll listen to me, and I don't 
expect that you will, because even Edison pre- 
ferred the trial and error system, instead of learn- 
ing by the experience of others. Let us for instance 
take the case of your wife saying: “Oh, Ed! On 
your way uptown, stop off at the meat market 
this evening and buy a steak for dinner." 

Don't misinterpret what she told you. She said 
that you were to buy a steak for dinner or supper, 
or whatever you call the evening meal in your 
house, but she did not imply that she wanted you 
to buy enough steak for the Fifth Annual Beef- 
steak Dinner of the William J. Mustard Associa- 
tion. Nevertheless, when you stop at the meat 
market, you will be simply carried away by the 
quantity of steak you see, and nothing that I can 
say will probably stop you from buying out the 
meat market, so to speak, as well as coaling up 
with enough goods from the grocery department 
to give the impression that you contemplate an 
immediate food famine. 

Thus when you reach home with the spoils of 
your marketing, there will be what is called in 
married life, “а scene," beginning with the rhetor- 
ical question: “Апа who do you think is going to 
eat all that stuff," followed by recriminations and 
the dragging into discussion, of former errors in 
your conduct—errors, which come under the head 
of “cold sweaters." That is to say, they are inci- 
dents in your life which you cannot remember 
even in the privacy of the bathtub, during a hot 
bath, without breaking into a cold perspiration. 
"Therefore, it is my plan and ought to be yours, 
always to ask the salesman how much steak your 
wife usually buys for supper, and then tell him to 
cut you off one slightly smaller. 

Should you however merely ask for steak, re- 
member that in addition to getting a perfectly 
enormous steak, there will be eye witnesses from 
the grocery department hard by, and particularly 
a motherly old soul who is demonstrating some- 
thing. If it's a hot day, she will ask you if you 
don't want to try a small glass of ice cold Pride of 
the Everglades Grape Fruit Juice, and this means 
that you are going to buy in addition to half a ton 
of steak, two dozen quarts of grape fruit juice. 

If, on the contrary, it is a cold evening, the same 
nice motherly soul will be right there with a steam- 
ing cupful of Old Fashioned Chicken and Okra 
Soup, sold by the quart can in cases of two dozen 
cans at the extremely moderate price of $9.60. It 
will probably be delivered at your door, just as 
you enter with the side of beef which you have 
bought as a T-bone steak sufficient for a family of 
three people, and what sort of a retort is it going 
to be, when you tell your wife that all it cost was 
$9.60 for the case? 

In fact, there aren’t any retorts you can make 
to your wife which will be any more effective 
than: “Oh yeah?” Or even: “Is that so/" And 
these are not exactly retorts. They are what, might 
be ealled provocations, and shut off further dis- 
cussion as successfully as trying to put out a fire 
with a mixture of gasoline and dynamite. “But,” I 
hear you protest, if this weak resistance in hus- 
bands, to meat and grocery salesmen is universal, 
why does a wife ask her husband to buy meat in 
the first place?” 

Why does a wife ask her husband to discipline 
the children? And yet you know as well as I do, 
that when it comes to disciplining the children, at 
the request of your wife, you are guilty on three 
counts. You will stand convicted of being a washout 
as a disciplinarian by your wife, as a weakling by 
your children, and by yourself, as a spineless boob. 

But then, you must console yourself with the 
knowledge that any punishment of children, if it 
does not immediately follow the offense, is a form 
of inhuman cruelty. If it does immediately follow 
the offense, then it’s just relieving your own 
irritation and nothing less than an exhibition of 
bad temper on your үм You are probably down- 
town when your child cuts up, and are you going 
to drop all work at the store or the office simply 
because your wife phones you that Betty has not 
only refused the spinach but has also dashed the 
spinach dish to the floor and made stains on the 
rug? The chances are that even were you to exceed 
the speed limit in your 1930 model, by the time 
you arrived, the spinach would have been wiped 
up and everything would have been forgiven and 
forgotten. 

On the other hand, let us assume the absurd 
hypothesis that you have arrived home six hours 
after the spinach episode and have spanked the 


80 


child, what happens then? Why, your wife will 
think you are a bully, a coward and a first class, 
Grade A monster, totally unfit to be either a father 
or even perhaps a member of human society. You 
are almost tempted to say with the writers of 
pamphlets addressed to criminals: *You can't 
win!!“ 

“Then what shall I do?" you ask, and with the 
experience of twenty-six years marriage to the 
same person, I can only say that it comes under 
the head of what the lawyers call damnum absque 
injuria, and I assure you I am not showing off 
when I quote this. It means first that I wasted a. 
lot of my adolescence studying law and second 
that colloquially speaking, you are up against it 
good and proper. You have no "out." In short, 
disciplining your children is something which 
every married man ought to know is impossible. 
So let us pass on to less difficult problems, and in 
these times, there is one situation which sooner or 
later is bound to crop up in the life of every mar- 
ried man, whether he be a farmer or a bank presi- 
dent, but especially if he be a writer. I refer to the 
request from your wife that you find a job for a 
son or daughter of a friend of hers. 

Tt is hardly necessary to say that these sons or 
daughters of your wife's friend, show great promise 
or have a “bent” for some such career as art, litera- 
ture, music, the stage or engineering. It is strange 
that these sons or daughters never have a bent for 
the career of retail salesman or salewoman in a 
store, or in the case of sons, for being brakemen or 
trolley car conductors, but what is expected of 
you by your wife is that you must start one of 
these young men off as associate editor of a maga- 
zine, when as soon as you lay eyes on him, you 
know at once that he is a born trolley car con- 
ductor. The procedure in this case is simple. You 
think of an editor who you know doesn’t want to 
employ anybody and with whom you haven’t any 
particular drag anyway, and you give the young 
man a letter reading: “Dear Max: The bearer of 
this letter is the son of my wife’s friend, Mrs. 
Samuel J. Tinkelpaugh. Anything that you can do 
for him will be much appreciated by yours most 
sincerely." 

This letter serves three purposes. It appeases 
your wife. It puts Mrs. Tinkelpaugh under an 
obligation not to bother you again, and it irritates 
the editor, Max, who dislikes you intensely ever 
since you drew four cards to an ace and made four 
aces that time when he held a full house pat on 
January 26th, 1910. Nor does he have to be neces- 
sarily an editor. A popular man like you, is bound 
to have lots of intimate friends to whom you have 
not spoken for years, and you can score them all 
off at one operation, by giving the young man 
letters to each of them. This shows your wife's 
friend that you have influence in many quarters, 
and will serve as an object lesson to her son that 
the best way to get a job is to go out and hustle 
for it himself. 

Anyway, the letter-of-introduction is one of the 
easiest ways for almost any man to make himself 
solid with his wife. That is why so many business 
men are interrupted while they are enjoying a sur- 
reptitious afternoon nap in the office, by the arrival 
of a Mr. Witherspoon from Spokane, Washington, 
with a letter of introduction from your wife's brother 
George, reading: Dear Jim: This will serve to 
introduce to you my neighbor Mr. Cyrus Wither- 
spoon who is President of our Home for Chronic 
Moravians. Knowing that your uncle by marriage 
was buried in the Moravian Cemetery on Staten 
Island, I am sure you will have a great deal in 
common. Love to the family from etc., etc.” 

If you happen to be a tall, muscular person 
interested in outdoor sport, you will probably be 
then confronted by a sawed-off chess player whose 
life has been devoted to Moravians and chess in 
equal proportions. Should you however be a 
slight, delicately built man, extremely fond of 
chamber music and the more intricate tone poems 
of Strauss, you will be overwhelmed by a giant 
with a loud, husky voice, who will talk golf, the 
purity of the Spokane water supply and the future 
of the orchard indusiry in Washington. How then 
are you going to meet this problem, as a married 
inan whose wife is devo‘ed to her brothers, par- 
ticularly her brothers who live furthest away in 
the states of Washington, Oregon and Montana? 


Well, in the first place, you probably know from 
looking at Mr. Witherspoon that no brother of 
your wife could regard him as anything more or 
less than the scourge of Spokane, Washington, and 
in the second place, if you invite him up to the 
house for dinner, your wife’s affection for his 
sponsor, her brother, will not improve Mr. Wither- 
spoon as an eleventh hour dinner guest. The exact 
number of married men in the United States is 
not known to me or to any book of reference, but 
if laid end to end, they would make a soft and 
yielding footpath for the exact number of their 
wives, and assuming that their number is legion, 
then only .00031416 of them would be able to get 
away with an eleventh hour dinner invitation to 
a stranger armed with a letter of introduction. 


“But you have not yet stated the remedy?” you 
say. Well, it is in effect the same method as when 
dealing with the son of a wife’s friend, which son 
has a “bent” for something. Always pass on the 
bearer of a letter of introduction to somebody in 
the next city he intends to visit. If you live in the 
East and Mr. Witherspoon from Spokane shows 
up with a letter of introduction, he will probably 
visit not only New York, where he presents his 
letter of introduction to you, but also Philadelphia, 
Washington and Boston. Why should you get one 
hundred per cent of Mr. Witherspoon, simply be- 
cause he happens to be a neighbor of your wife’s 
brother? Are you going to sit around all evening 
and hear him talk about the purity of the water 
supply in Spokane? A man can pay too high a price 
for keeping peace in the home, especially if he 
doesn’t succeed in keeping it by paying the price, 
so the reasonable thing to do is to distribute Mr. 
Witherspoon among people you don’t like in Wash- 
ington, Philadelphia AX Boston. 

“But my wife," you protest, “is the soul of 
hospitality, and there's always room for one more 
at the dinner table in our house." 

Why, certainly there is, if you give sufficient 
notice, in some cases amounting to ten days, but 
when it comes to your wife having provided just 
enough lamb chops to go round, i. e. one thick one 
for each member of the family and the help, any 
married man who invites somebody up to the 
house without proper notice to his wife, is out of 
luck, and that includes pot luck and all other 
kinds of luck. It may even amount to the old 
instance of the vaudeville performer who invited 
three of his warmest friends out to the house on 
Long Island, to take pot luck, and no sooner had 
he said to his wife: “My dear, these are my old 
friends Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones and Mr. Robinson," 
than one word led to another, and the inter- 
marital throwing of kitchen ware began, ending 
with the prospective host getting a flat iron just 
below the ear. When he was restored to conscious- 
ness, he was still the hospitable optimist, and 
smiled weakly at his proposed guests. “Jolly little 
woman, the Missus," he said. Always clowning!” 

"Therefore, I say, show your wife every consid- 
eration that reason and experience dictate. Don't 
surprise her with dinner guests, with or without 
letters of introduction, and in fact don't surprise 
her at all, if you can help it. Should you have been 
wearing a moustache for years, and it begins to 
sprout grey hairs, thus betraying your age, pre- 
pare your wife before you shave it off. Married 
women are like domestic animals in this respect. 
I knew a man who whenever he put on a clean col- 
lar, which he did regularly once a week, so sur- 
prised his faithful Airedale, that he was obliged 
to kick it vigorously before it stopped growling 
long enough to recognize its kind master. 

There are also married men who have long cher- 
ished a sort of ambition to wear loud clothing. I 
was walking with a married man down Madison 
Avenue, New York, and we stopped to look at a 
clothing store window, where there were displayed 
some imported overcoats in check patterns with 
leather buttons which looked like blobs of chewing 
gum. I could see from the married man’s face that 
as far as he and one of these overcoats was con- 
cerned, it was a case of love at first sight, and I 
had an immediate hunch that as soon as he could 
scrape together thirty-five dollars, he was going 
to disturb one of the happiest homes in Bayside, 
L. I., by abandoning a plain blue overcoat for 
that London creation of brown checks and chewing 
gum buttons. 

Now, there are many worn out anecdotes of the 
married woman who buys neckties impossible in 
design and color for her husband’s birthday, but 
these examples of marital shock are as nothing, 
compared with the number of married men aged 
fifty, who think that they will look well in prep 
school clothing and who without the slightest 
warning, spring a tight fitting sixteen year old 
suit on a fifty year old wife. It shakes married 
happiness to its foundation, especially as at the 
first opportunity, that outraged wife will present 


Continued on page 86 


PRINCETON* PANORAMA 
Continued from page 68 
sentatives in Princeton, and there is no re»- 
son why a boy should find difficulty in getting rid 
of a reasonable allowance. There are frequent. 
dances at which some of the more popular of the 
prominent dance orchestras are present. All of the 
upperclassmen who reveal sufficiently conventional 
personalities are invited to join one or another of 
the clubs, where, for a nominal sum, they are pro- 
vided with a place to eat and a social standing. 
“The curriculum is one of the best furnished in 
an American college, and is adequate for any 
gentleman." 


*(NOTE: Although a particular college is mentioned in the 
title, this article might just as well refer to any of the other 
leading eastern universities. Perhaps Princeton was chosen 
for the sake of the alliteration, or possibly because the 
author happens to go there himse!f.) 


ESQUIREC— Autumn, 1933 


DEDICATED TO THE 
MAN WHO SAYS HE 


САМ°Т WEAR BROWN 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


ESPITE the fact that the number 

of Civil War veterans has dwindled 

to a comparative handful, the majority 
of American men still seem to be enlisted 
in some secret army of wearers of blue 
and grey. Catch the average American 
in anything but a blue or grey suit and 
you will detect a trace of the same self- 
conscious look that is otherwise reserved 
for those who wear evening clothes on 
street cars. Englishmen, habituated from 
childhood to tweedy hues of heather, 
Lovat and whatnot, simply can't under- 
stand this. Of course, there are a lot of 
things they can’t understand. Perhaps 
the only explanation is that part of the 
heritage of our male folklore is the su- 
perstition that blue is becoming to every 
man while brown is becoming to almost 
nobody. That just isn’t true and we wish 
that somebody had thought to keep the 
statistics that would prove it. Well, any- 


way, if you’re one of those blue suit boys, 
try combining a brown worsted suit and 
a shirt with blue body and white pique 
collar. (The newer shirts come in very 
flattering deep blue). A green shirt is 
good, too, but the combination is more 
obvious. In general, though, don’t be 
afraid of green—they’ve taken the “‘poi- 
son”’ out of it this season and it’s one of 
the colors a man can wear with perfect 
assurance. The bold polka dot tie shown 
on the figure is smarter than the printed 
satins shown at the left, but they’re very 
good looking in their lustrous way and 
alot of men like them. Monogramming, 
once almost the monopoly of the custom 
shirt maker, has of late spread all over 
the realm of ready-to-wear articles. A 
pair of monogrammed braces like those 
sketched can be obtained for less, this 
season, than you would have had to 
pay for plain ones in the recent past. 


81 


LAIN blue suits will never get you 

into the headlines as the Brummel 
of your time, but they do afford the 
negative approach, as it were, to the 
state of being well dressed. If you are 
convinced, or if your wife has convinced 
you, that your taste in eolors is not to be 
trusted, sticking to plain blue is the 
most reliable way to get the world from 
proving it on you. You may not be re- 
splendently right, but at least you can’t 
be elamorously wrong—you can wear al- 
most anything with a blue suit. You can 
wear any one of the self figured ties 
sketched in the panel of accessories at 
the right—yes, even the green one. As a 
matter of fashion faet, green aecessories 
with a blue suit are considered very 
good this season, some mysterious re- 
peal having taken the curse off green as 
a color for men. A colored shirt is rec- 
ommended, but the collar and cuffs 


82 


ought to be white to get the best effect 
against the dark blue ground of the suit. 
The newest and smartest shirt has a col- 
ored body and collar and cuffs of white 
pique. The collar is detached, allowing 
for the substitution of a laundered collar 
when desired. The white pique collar 
that comes with the shirt should be of 
the new model that provides eyelet 
openings for the collar pin. The pleated 
bosom is dressier, but these shirts are 
made up both with pleated and with 
plain bosom and both are good looking 
and both are correct. The cuffs are the 
double, or French, style and call for 
euff links. The newest thing in braees is 
the double braid in contrasting colors 
—very comfortable and very good look- 
ing. The hat is the correet gray Hom- 
burg. On seeond thought, we take it all 
baek— wearing these things with your 
blue suit you will be resplendently right. 


FOR THOSE WHO GO 
FOR ANY COLOR SO 


LONG AS IT’S BLUE 


ESQUIR Е —Autumn, 1933 


MAKE IT FUNNY 


A frank response to the ery 
that haunts the waking hours 
of the professional humorist 


by HARRY HERSHFIELD 


“AND your next speaker, ladies and gen- 

tlemen, is Mr. J. Gordon Blivitz. And 
Blivitz was the hit of the evening—by his 
getting up and simply saying: ‘Ladies and 
gentlemen, this affair doesn’t remind me of 
any story at all!“ 

But even the deadly humor of the good old 
days would be welcome in these morose 
times. Like the professional worrier asking 
a friend, “Do you think we'll have war 
soon?" And the other answering, "Bill if 
war should come now, it would be like the 
old Union League Club on Fifth Avenue: 
One of the members died and the outside was 
draped in erepe. A passerby remarked: 'It 
does liven up the old place, doesn’t it?” 

I had a reason for opening with these two 
flippancies. The reader or listener is no dif- 
ferent than T. Coddington Rappaport, who 
received a letter from a ereditor, which read 
as follows: My Dear Coddington. You 
are cordially invited to attend a party given 
by Joan Crawford, in her penthouse. It will 
be the smartest affair of the season. Blondes 
galore and all the champagne you can pour. 
P. S. I knew you’d read so far, you crook 
OU e 

So forgive me, my friends, for this un- 
ethical technique in trying to interest you— 
and what burns me up more, is that I find 
myself here now apologizing. And me a 
hardened newspapermancartoonist, rather. 
Which calls for the immediate solving of 
this moot question, Is a cartoonist a news- 
paperman?’’—and the answer:“ Is a barnacle 
a ship? Whatever the status might be, 
this is evident—that the editorials are get- 
ting funnier every day—and the supposed 
comic strips are going editorial. Then again, 
the humorist feels the protection as in 
Shakespeare's line Invest me in my motley 
—give me leave to speak my mind." The 
jester speaks the truth. 

I'm sorry that I quoted that line so letter 
perfect. It seems that I have not learned 
my lesson. The other week I spoke at a big 
banquet. During my talk, I recited a piece 
of poetry, by Keats—accurately. With that, 
a heckler in the rear of the hall shouted: 
Zither he's educated or has only one book 
in the house." TIl admit this is all beside 
the point. I started about the Jester 
speaks the truth.“ Who is to say in the final 
analysis what is truth and what is gross 
exaggeration? Even while I’m propounding 
this, evolution has changed things enough to 
even distort this simple continuity. Either 
everything is absolutely wrong—or all in- 
exorably right. A good gag or pun coming 
at the psychological moment, might end 
this economie crisis. What is the finished 
completed thing—or the preparatory state 
—who ean definitely prove anything, when 
everything is part of everything, in the com- 
ing and going? There is not philosophy safe 
enough to wager on. 8 

Only one philosopher had it right. He 
was one of those beings who loudly pro- 
claimed his diagnosis on all happenings. One 


ESQUIR E—Autumn, 1933 


night, he went to an affair—and what he 
thought was ginger ale, wasn't, and he 
became good and properly stewed. The 
younger members of the organization, tak- 
ing cognizance of the fact, decided on a prank 
—just to convince themselves as to the philo- 
sophieal truth of the supposed wise one's 
viewpoint. They took the inebriated genius 
to a graveyard and laid him on the grave. 
They then in turn hid behind a willow tree, 
to await the blazing sun of the dawn to 
awaken the elderly gent—who would then 
find himself prone on the top of a grave. 
The insistent sun did its duty—it brought 
the drunken one to. He looked around and a 
quick inventory showed him that he was 
lying on a grave. In an instant he was the 
true philosopher. Loudly he yelled: If 
I’m alive, what am I doing here? And If 
I'm dead, why am I so thirsty?” 

Which reminds me, that I’m not so sure 
at this minute what it’s all about—this 
article. All I was told, when commissioned 
to write this, was Make it funny—or some- 
thing about fun making.” Believe me, 
Grant couldn’t be more general—say, that 
isn’t bad at that? I just happened to think 
of it—but I'll be more careful from now on. 
And from now on—that is, to the finish of 
this article, is the tough part. Then again, 
why should I belittle myself—me, whose 
facile pen has scribbled to millions? Which 
brings up the subject of circulation—and 
that’s what makes you the great wit that 
you’re supposed to be. It was truly said 
“Repetition is reputation.” Get people to 
read you enough. As was told about Mr. 
Bernarr Macfadden. After his paper, the 
Graphic, was started in New York, when it 
was running about two months, Mr. Mac- 
fadden called in the circulation manager and 
shouted: “How сап we get more people to 
read the Graphie?" And the editor ans- 
wered: Publish it every day, in the Daily 
News as an аа!” 

Yes, that is quite an order, “Маке it 
funny." On the radio, in the newspaper, in 
the movies, on the stage, the same ery— 
* Make it funny." And the same little old 
joke is twisted and turned and “built up” 
because of that order—talk about circula- 
tion—a good joke is sent out on its specific 
mission under more disguises than have ever 
been thought of in Seotland Yard. And how 
guilty has been your writer here! Not all the 
stories employed by yours truly have been 
Yiddish stories, as was my comic strip. I 
remodelled many, as it were. If the gag is 
basie, it ean easily be done—not hard to 
reincorporate. This for example: A little 
Jewish fellow was to play in a minstrel show. 
And went to a friend with this plea: Mine 
friend, I am to play in a minstrel show—and 
I need a good joke. I don't eare how old it is 
—so long as it is good." Well,“ answered 
the liberal one, “‘here’s an old joke, but а 
good one. There was a bartender out in 
front of his saloon. Along eame an Irishman 
named Pat, with a basket and one egg in it. 


The bartender said ‘Pat, I need that egg for 
my saloon. If you'll give it to me, I'll give 
you any drink in the place for it.“ Pat gave 
him the egg and ordered Sherry and Egg." 
The little Jewish fellow laughed loud. ‘That 
certainly is a good joke—T'll positively be a 
big hit with it in the minstrel show.’ ‘Do 
you know how to tell it?’ asked the friend, 
‘You better rehearse it.“ ‘Don’t worry, 
mine pal, I know how to tell it—but if you 
want me to rehearse it, I will.’ 

And here's how he told it.“ There was a 
bartender in front of his saloon. Along came 
a feller named Ginsberg, with a basket with 
one egg in it—’ 

‘No, no’, yelled the friend, ‘I said it was 
a fellow named Pat.’ 

‘Yes, I know it. But when I tell it, it'll 
be Ginsberg—that's too smart a triek for an 
Irishman!” 

A few weeks from now, my friends, this 
same joke will be about Mike and Cohen— 
and the locale will be changed to some place 
in India. “Make it funny’—how many 
crimes have been committed because of that. 
But that again brings up another subject, 
within the subjeet—known as ‘“‘manufac- 
tured" humor. And the professional, once 
steeped in the tricks of the trade, finds it 
diffieult to keep his hands off the pure, gen- 
uine faetual humor. As is said about a fine 
painting, It takes two men to produce a 
fine painting. The artist to paint it—and 
another fellow to shoot him to keep him 
from spoiling it.“ 

We are prone not to be satisfied with the 
natural taste of things—and I know of cases 
in which only one cook сап also spoil the 
broth. But as a rule, it is ruined by the 
other fellow, who steals a story, then gives it 
an added unnecessary twist, to make it feel 
it was his own original masterpiece. Oh, if 
they would only leave it alone, just as it 
really happened—and the actual happenings 
are always the funniest. It will not be long 
before this one is spoiled—this true event. 
Sitting in my office one morning, I was inter- 
rupted in my work by the entering of a lodge 
brother. 

He looked bedraggled. Vou look like 
you've slept in the park," I started. “You 
got right,” he answered, “I haven’t been 
home the whole night—I’m afraid to go 
home—my wife will kill me." On further 
questioning he told me the cause. Last 
night, my wife knew I had twenty-five dol- 
lars in my pocket. She knew I was going to 
play poker in a feller’s house. But she 
thought it was going to be ‘penny ante’— 
and I lost every cent. And if I come home 
without the money, it means the end of our 
happiness in married life.“ 

After listening to his tale of woe, I gave 
him a leeture about further poker playing. 
Then lent him twenty-five dollars, so he 
could go home to her in peace. He thanked 
me and when he got to the door, he said: 
“Мг. Hershfield.” 

“Yes,” I answered, ‘‘what is it?" 

Continued on page 86 


83 


84 


“Well, now what do you know about police methods?” 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


THOUGHT FOR FOOD 


A curse on carbohydrates and 


a glad goodbye to spinach. as 
diet fads are explained away 


by ARTHUR Е. KRAETZER, MD. 


E Americans have a number of faults 
with respect to food. They are faults 
not only of fact but of philosophy. We seem 
to be very little interested in the tasteful 
eooking and serving of food, but tremen- 
dously concerned with what is good for us." 
Facts are very deceitful things. They 
have two fundamental defects. They may 
be irrelevant. They may have a double 
meaning, part of which we miss. This, I 
admit, may be a little unfair to facts, 
which, af ter all, are the essential build- 
ing stones of all theory and all philos- 
ophy. It probably would be more 
just to blame ourselves, who use and 
misuse facts. Most certainly of the 
use and misuse of facts and near-facts 
we have built up some weird systems 
of dietary fads. 

It is certainly a fact that iron is an 
essential element of the diet. It is 
also a fact that spinach contains a 
great deal of iron. But it does not fol- 
low that we should stuff unfortunate 
children with this most unintriguing 
and unappetizing vegetable. There 
are plenty of more pleasant sources of 
iron. For example, good beef and 
lamb and any of the other green vege- 
tables such as green peas, string beans, 
and asparagus which, if well prepared 
I say if well prepared“ certainly 
lose no merit by being delicious in- 
stead of flat and tasteless. It would 
almost seem as if we found merit in 
the distastefulness of spinach, possi- 
bly on the Puritan principle that what 
is unpleasant must be good for us, 
and by the way of emphasizing the 
salutary effect of distastefulness, the 
average cook serves spinach in a form 
that only a cow dying of starvation and des- 
perate for any kind of food, would be tempted 
to eat. I have met but one cook who knew 
how to serve spinach in a form that civilized 
people would like, and that cook went to her 
reward many years ago. The average kitchen 
ignoramus hands it up to the table looking 
like the drainings of some gloomy swamp, 
where some blaekguard had murdered his 
wife. 

We hear a lot about vitamins and we have 
becomeas erazy about them as we were—and 
still are, in spots—about patent medicines. 
There is no questioning the fact of the neces- 
sity of vitamins. The discovery of these es- 
sential elements of diet is one of the chapters 
in medical history. Many of us have come 
to think that we must exercise a constant 
anxious vigilanee lest we miss our daily 
ration of vitamins and develop beri-beri or 
adult seurvy, diseases that are so rare in 
civilized communities that the appearance 
of a single case in a modern hospital is an 
event of dramatic interest. The point is that 
vitamins, though absolutely essential for 
health, are required in infinitesimally small 
quantities, and more than enough of all the 
various vitamins will be found automatically 


ESOUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


in the average half-way decent diet of meat, 
fish, eggs, and butter and а moderate amount 
of fresh vegetables. The average American 
commits plenty of dietetic sins, but unless 
poverty has reduced him to a semi-starva- 
tion basis, laek of vitamins is not apt to be 
one of them. However, a person who drinks 
coffee and eats a bun for breakfast, and a 
sandwich and coffee for lunch, may develop 
symptoms which are possibly due to vitamin 
lack. But here the problem is the very obvi- 


ous primary problem of just plain not enough 
food. Given enough food of the kind he likes, 
the average American will be pretty apt to 
find included in it sufficient vitamins with- 
out having to fuss about them. In the poorly 
fed section of the South, however, where the 
people subsist mainly on pork and corn, 
vitamin lack may be a very real thing. 
There are, however, two serious diseases 
of infancy and childhood which, even in 
fairly prosperous communities, are due to 
deficiency of vitamins and the presence of 
sufficient vitamins cannot automatically be 
taken for granted. If infants are fed on 
pasteurized milk, or on the milk of under- 
nourished mothers, they will frequently get 
rickets and infantile seurvy. It should be a 
matter of strict routine, under a physician’s 
guidance, to fortify the milk diet of infants 
with cod liver oil, orange juice, and tomato 
juice. The first protects against rickets, the 
last two against scurvy. It is not necessary 
to go to extremes, however, on the principle 
that if enough is good, too much is better. An 
excess of cod liver oil and orange juice can up- 
set an infant’s delicately balanced digestion, 
and to upset an infant’s digestion is no joke. 
In this very important matter follow the 
doctor’s advice, not the advertisements. 


It has always been taken for granted that 
milk is a perfect food, probably because of 
certain sentimental and poetic notions on 
the subject. In the first place it is an incom- 
plete food because it contains very little 
iron. As a result, the hemoglobin of exclu- 
sively milk-fed babies, which is 100% at 
birth, frequently drops to 50% at 6 months, 
an anemia in other words. This lack can be 
supplied by beef juice given judiciously, i. e., 
under guidance. Furthermore many adults 
find milk extremely difficult to digest. 
For these people milk is not a liquid 
food by any means, for, slipping easily 
down their throats, it forms tough 
rubbery curds in their stomachs and 
causes constipation, coated tongue, 
bad breath and a general sense of 
feeling miserable. There is no greater 
mistake than to follow the glib advice 
of those false prophets, the better 
health contests, and go on a so-called 
“milk eure." People who follow their 
misguided notions run down hill pretty 
fast. On the other hand there are 
people who take milk, like it and pros- 
per on it. Remember that, though 
milk is the Piece de resistance for the 
infant, it is but an accessory food for 
the adult, and while many adults can 
take it there are many who cannot. 

Another superstition is that fruit 
is a sort of panacea, a food that is not 
only good for everybody no matter 
in how great quantities, but a food 
with a sort of magie medicinal value 
that will cure whatever ails you. This 
is most emphatically not so. The main 
part of fruit is cellulose and cellulose 
is completely indigestible. Getting 
past the upper or relatively clean part of the 
intestine it reaches the lower part unab- 
sorbed and then there happens exaetly what 
happens when you add fruit pulp to home- 
brew and set it away in a warm place. A fer- 
mentating mash is formed, with the manu- 
faeture of gas and the same poisons that 
make home-brew such an uneomfortable and 
ungenial drink. The same is true of coarse 
vegetables which leave a lot of residue. There 
has been a good deal of mistaken propaganda 
about the value of roughage. We are taught 
that the bowels will not function unless they 
are regularly stuffed with rabbit food. The 
over concern of so many people about their 
bath-room aetivities has made them very 
receptive for this erroneous idea. Here is a 
beautiful example of how a faet can go 
astray. For the majority of cases of consti- 
pation are due not to weakness but strength 
of the lower intestine, that is, to strength 
wrongly applied. If the intestine is irritated, 
whether mechanically by roughage or chem- 
ieally from fermenting earbohydrates, it 
clamps down and impedes the onward pas- 
sage of its contents. The result is the so- 
ealled spastic constipation which is by far 
the most frequent variety. Roughage and 
fruit are usually bad for colitis. Although at 

Continued on page 86 


85 


THOUGHT FOR FOOD 
Continued from page 85 

times they may bring apparent relief for constipa- 
tion, they will very frequently perpetuate the con- 
dition they are supposed to cure. They should 
never be taken to excess and never be used in cases 
of constipation or colitis unless the doctor in charge 
of the case sees some particular reason why they 
are indicated. 


From time immemorial there has been an almost 
superstitious convietion that meat is a harmful 
food. Now that we have all of us “gone scientific” 
a number of facts have been plausibly misconstrued 
in à well meant but misguided attempt to prove 
this notion. Meat contains uric acid. In gout, uric 
acid is deposited in the joints. Ergo, meat causes 
gout. Very logical, but not so. Gout is due to an 
inability of the kidneys to eliminate uric acid, but 
it by no means follows that it is the eating of uric 
acid-containing foods that is the primary cause of 
this inability. It may well be that people who 
already have gout should limit their consumption 
of meat. Butthe people who get gout are the exces- 
sive drinkers of beer, and heavy wines such as port 
and sherry. It was the three bottle men of the 
18th century England who got the red-hot big toe 
of classic gout. We very seldom see it today. 


We hear a great deal about intestinal toxemia, 
or so-called auto-intoxication. Prejudice has caused 
the assumption that meat was the cause of this 
condition. There are two types of bacterial decom- 
position of food: putrefaction and fermentation. 
Protein putrefies; carbohydrates ferment. Each 
process causes the formation of its own series of 
poisons. It has been taken for granted that putre- 
faction was the most frequent form of bacterial ac- 
tivity in the intestinal tract. Now it is understood, 
no food can undergo bacterial decomposition in the 
intestinal tract, unless it escapes digestion and ab- 
sorption in the upper, relatively clean part of the 
intestine, and gets down to the lower portion, which 
is normally full of bacteria. It follows that the 
foods most likely to escape digestion will be the 
foods most likely to end up in bacterial decompo- 
sition. The protein foods, meat, fish and eggs are 
easily digested. They offer less chance of reaching 
the colon unchanged. But excess starch, particu- 
larly if it is incompletely cooked and insufficiently 
masticated, may in part, escape digestion and 
reaching the colon, form a fermentating mash with 
the formation of fusel oil and other poisons that 
make home-brew such an unwholesome drink. As 
for the second, carbohydrate cellulose. or vegetable 
and fruit fiber, the roughage that we have been 
taught to admire so much, human beings cannot 
digestit at all. Herbivorous animals such as horses, 
cows and rabbits can. We cannot. Reaching the 
colon it, like unabsorbed starch, forms gas fermen- 
tative poisons. Sugar, the third carbohydrate, is 
easily digested and absorbed—within limits. On 
the other hand it may be very easily fermented, 
with the usual penalties ensuing. The trouble is 
that the American has gone in too strong for this 
particular food-stuff. It is his chief dietetic sin. A 
century ago the per capita consumption of sugar 
in this country was 5 pounds per year. Today it is 
112. It has become a cheap and profitable substitute 
for the more wholesome and more expensive foods, 
meat, fish and eggs. 


It is the excess of carbohydrate food in the 
American diet that causes the intestinal toxemia, 
for which meat, fish and eggs, the protein foods, 
get the blame. A few years ago two men ate practi- 
cally nothing but meat for an entire year. During 
this time they were kept under the strictest scien- 
tific care and observation. At the end of the year 
everything was perfect, they felt 100% fit. Their 
blood pressure, blood chemistry and urine were all 
normal. Most unexpectedly, the bacterial content 
of the colon was less, and what was most shattering 
to conventional preconceptions, the putrefactive 
bacteria, which are supposed to thrive on protein, 
had practically disappeared. 


We have always taken it for granted that protein 
caused high blood pressure. It has never been 
proved, but everybody believes it. A physician 
made a careful record of blood pressures among the 
Eskimos. Among the northern Eskimos he found 
no cases of high blood pressure. Among the south- 
ern Eskimos he found high blood pressure just as 
frequent and just as high as in civilized communi- 
ties. This is certainly curious and does not at all 
coincide with the prejudices on the subject. But 
remember, high blood pressure is not a simple 
problem. It is a complex problem. Whatever part 
faulty diet may play in its genesis, the faulty diet is 
but опе factor. In other words, high blood pressure 
is not a matter for amateur dietetic treatment. 
Remember that the copy in the ads is motivated 
by the desire to sell. It was a happy day for the 
advertisers when copy writers began to set them- 
selves up as mass-dispensers of individual advice 
on scientific subjects. Yet each case remains a 
subject for careful study by the individual’s 
physician. 


86 


LET ME PROMISE YOU 
Continued from page 15 
at him. 

But he didn't even look at her. With his mouth 
drooping open, he looked longingly at the watch, 
for he realized how much he wanted it now that he 
sawitsmashed on thefloor. Hehad always wanted 
such a watch. As he looked up at her, his blue eyes 
were innocent with the sincerity of his full dis- 
appointment. “Сее, Al,” was all he said. 

'The anger began to go out of her, and she felt 
how great was his disappointment. She felt help- 
less. “Т shouldn't have done that, Georgie," 
she said. 

“Tt was a crazy thing to do. It was such a 
beauty," he said. Why did you do it?" 

“T don't know,” she said. She knelt down and 
started to cry. “Maybe it's not broken much,” 
she faltered, moving around on her knees and pick- 
ing up the pieces of glass carefully. In her hand she 
held the pieces but her eyes were blinking so that 
she could not see them. “It was a crazy thing to 
do," she was thinking. “It helps nothing. It can't 
help bring him back to me. Why does he stand there 
like that? Why doesn’t he move?" At last she 
looked up at him and saw his round smooth chin 
above the white neck of the sweater, and her dark 
eyes were shining with tears, for it seemed, as he 
watched her without speaking or moving, that 
everything ought to have turned out differ- 
ently. They both looked at the broken pieces of 
glass she held in her hand in such abject despair, 
and for that moment while they looked, they began 
to share a common, bitter disappointment which 
made Georgie gravely silent and drew him close to 
her. "Never mind, Al,” he said with awkward 
tenderness. ‘Please get up.“ 

“No. Go away. Leave me alone.” 

“You’ve got to get up from there. I can’t stand 
here like this with you there.” 

“Oh, why don’t you go. I know I'm mean and 
jealous. I wish someone would shake me and hurt 
me. I’m alittle cat.” 

“No, you’re not, Al. Who’d want to shake you?” 
Please get up,” he said, coaxing. “Неге, come оп,” 
he said, bending down and putting his hand on 
her shoulder. 

“Бау you'll stay, Georgie,” she said, holding on 
to his hand. “It’s so warm here. It's miserable 
outside. Just listen to the wind. Do you hear it? 
ГЇЇ get you something to eat. You don’t want to go, 
do you?” 

“Tt’s no worse than when I came,” he said, but 
his sudden tenderness for her was making him un- 
easy. He had known Al so well for a long time, she 
had been one of his girls, one he could feel sure of 
and leave at any time, but now he felt that he had 
never looked right at her and seen her before. He 
did not know her. Nor did he know himself now. 
He could not leave her. The warmth of her love 
began to awe him. Her dark head, her pale oval 
face seemed so close to him that he might have put 
out his hand timidly and touched her and felt her 
whole ardent being under the cloth of her dress, 
but the sharp tremor inside him made him catch 
his breath and destroyed all his old confidence. 
Faltering, he said, “Сее Al, I never got you right. 
Not in this way. I don't want to go. Look how 
I want to stay.” 

“Georgie, listen to me," she said eagerly. “PI 
get that watch for you. Or ГІЇ get a new one. I'll 
save up for it. Or Ill get you anything else you 
say. 

“Don’t think about it," he said, shamefaced. 
“T feel just like a bum.” 

“But I want so much to do it, and you can look 
forward to it. We both can look forward. Please 
let me promise it to you." 

She was still crouched on the carpet. He glanced 
at her handsome dark face above the white nunlike 
collar and at her soft pleading eyes. “You look 
lovely right now, Al,” [е said. “You look like a 
wild thing. Honest to God you do.” 

Touched by happiness, she smiled. Then with 
all her heart she began to yearn for something 
more to give him. If there were only more things 
she had and could give, she thought; if she could 
only give everything in the world and leave herself 
nothing. 


A TREATISE ON PIE 


Continued from page 20 


dandy combination for anyone who knows where 
to find a sofa with pillows on it. 

After testing all kinds, including such rarities as 
raisin pie, butter-scotch pie, prune pie, sweet pota- 
to pie, banana pie, tomato pie, pineapple pie and 
chocolate pie, and the old dependables, such as 
peach pie, cocoanut custard pie, lemon pie and 
gooseberry pie, the gold medal must be awarded 
to one carrying a stratum of either huckleberries 
or blueberries at least an inch thick, overlaid with 
lattice work, and slapped in the face with about a 
pint of soft vanilla ice cream. This is said to be the 
kind the angels eat. 


“MAKE IT FUNNY” 
Continued from page 83 

“Could you lend me ten dollars more, Mr. 
Hirshfield —I'd like to show her I am winners.” 

That story is true, gentlemen—now watch that 
go the rounds—on every radio, in every movie 
short—you just watch it—it’s a great racket, this 
“make it funny.” But who am І to complain? I 
am forgetting that there are three sides to every 
story—his, yours and the truth. But humor— 
that is, the manufacture and distribution of it, is 
one of the biggest “rackets” in the country today. 
And how the boys will cheat and “chisel” to be 
the first to gain a reputation on it—or more impor- 
tant the “dough.” The seventeenth thief of the 
original story may be the one to cash in the big- 
gest on it. Who tells the story, is like the value of 
paintings— It depends on whose nail it hangs." 

But I openly assert, that the bigger the come- 
dian, the more boldly he steals another's quip or 
gag—and the originator is lucky he isn't jailed 
or roasted by the critics, for his daring to refuse his 
property. And all on account of the high prices 
paid for even a single line of humor these days. 
As I said, the bigger names are the greatest offend- 
ers—it goes for them as they say about politicians 
today: "Every man has his price—and what's 
more, you can get him on installments.” 

Then again, what's the difference? If you can 
get a laugh out of it, what difference does it make 
how and who dishes it out—as far as I can see, that 
is the purpose of humor. One more complaint out 
of me, then I'll not bring it up again—but it does 
burn you up, to see your brain-child kidnapped. 
Mark Twain had it right when he said “They can’t 
steal from me what I haven't thought of yet.” 

Lest I get too serious, I mustn't forget I was told 
to make it funny. This is my first talking to you, 
readers of this magazine—and I do not want to 
give the wrong impression. And in closing let me 
tell you how it feels to meet people of your class 
this true story, if you will, of my first meeting with 
Mrs. Vanderbilt, in her Sutton place home. Some 
entertainment to be broadcast from her smart 
abode. I was invited—and told to bring a friend. 

I brought a little business acquaintance along— 
and impressed on him the favor of my arranging 
for his meeting Mrs. Vanderbilt—that from now 
on, she would know him and he would know her— 
Mrs. Vanderbilt. 

We finally met the famous society leader, wait- 
ing in line till other guests were introduced. My 
friend was duly impressed. I kept saying to him: 
*Now you know her and she knows you." On leav- 
ing, again the line formed to bid her goodbye. 
Everyone made some flattering remark to the im- 
portant lady. But my little friend didn’t lose his 
sense of proportion—he wasn't fooling himself, 
believe me. When his turn came to bid au revoir, 
he said, Glad to have met you, Mrs. Roosevelt — 
I hope to be introduced to you again some дау!” 


WHAT A MARRIED MAN 
SHOULD KNOW 


Continued from page 80 

the overcoat with the chewing gum buttons, or the 
prep school suit, to some Italian or colored furnace 
man whose wife is so busy making both ends meet 
in managing the family finances that she wouldn't 
care if her husband wore Dutch peasant's clothing 
and topped it off with a high silk hat. 

My advice to you therefore, is to stick to blue 
or grey, varied occasionally by a pencil stripe 
material, and don't tempt your wife to give away 
a perfectly new suit simply because it looks like a 
masquerade costume. *But," you are going to tell 
me, “after all marriageis a matter of give and take, 
and when my wife buys herself a new dress, copied 
from a Parisian model, which makes her look as 
though she were wearing her own granddaughter's 
graduation gown, am I to say nothing?" 

You certainly are. As you yourself said, marriage 
is а matter of give and take. The husband gives 
and the wife takes, and she is especially prone to 
take one of your new green soft hats with either а 
bow or a little feather in the rear of the ribbon 
band. No self respecting woman is going to give 
people the impression that she is married to a 
Tyrolean who without provocation will yodel in 
publie. Hence that hat is as surely destined for 
the incinerator as last night's potato peelings, and 
I therefore recommend as tending toward marital 
happiness, a plain black derby or else a soft hat 
in a modified grey felt with the bow on the side. 

As a matter of fact, I could go on recommending 
all sorts of procedure by way of stating what every 
married man should know, and thereby expand 
this piece into a three volume treatise, but from 
what I've said, you probably get the idea of the 
thing. After all your want to be happy, don't you? 
Therefore by avoiding such trouble as has been 
outlined here, my experience of twenty-six years, 
tells me that you will be very, very happy thirty- 
five per cent of the time, and believe it or not, 
twenty-five per cent is considered to be an ex- 
tremely high average. 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


TYPIFYING THE 


TREND TOWARD 


ROUGH FABRICS 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


ITH the new trend toward 

rougher textures, brown suitings 
have been given a greatly increased im- 
portance in the fashion picture. The soft 
handling and rough weaves, rough al- 
most to a point of shagginess, are by no 
means confined to clothes for country 
wear—this year they’ve come to town. 
This is of particular advantage to men 
whose business or profession makes an 
easy informal appearance helpful. The 
doctor, for example, ought to be one of 
the most enthusiastic weleomers of the 
new rough textures. They make him 
look robust and very healthily outdoor- 
ish, and there is a nice point of tact in- 
volved in the thought that they resem- 
ble, as little as possible, the costume of 
the average undertaker. The two button 
notch lapel modified drape model is the 
best adapted for the rough textured 
cloths, as opposed to the three button 


drape with peak lapels that was sketched 
on page 75 which is a model better 
adapted to worsteds. The accessories 
sketched at the left on this page are 
selected as being especially well suited 
for wear with the rough suitings. The 
clipped figure shirting, long outside the 
pale of fashionable preferment, has come 
back with this new suiting trend, the 
slightly raised appearance of this fabrie 
being especially appropriate with a soft 
rough suiting. The Spitalsfield tie is an- 
other revived favorite. In a tie of this 
type you ean get away with bright colors 
without approaching the deadline of 
gaudiness. As for hats, the snapbrim is 
the only suitable model, but to be up to 
the times it ought to have the rather 
high tapered crown shown in the one 
sketched, and should be worn without 
dents in the crown. It is good in green 
or brown with a greenish cast. 


87 


ГОК no good reason, except that mat- 
ters of fashion seldom run along the 
line of logieal reasoning, this suit of 
black and gray checks, that once would 
have yelled “racetrack” to the discern- 
ing, now basks in the sunlight of fash- 


ionable favor. It is not by accident, 
either, that it is pictured on an older 
man, because age has proved no barrier 
to the invasion of the mode for busi- 
ness and town wear by fabrics that were 
once considered suitable only for eoun- 
try and sports clothes. Note, however, 
that the outdoorish aspect of the cloth 
does not necessarily imply a similar 
informality in the accessories. The car- 
nation of Harvard red, the laundered 
collar and the off white gloves—once 
these would have been regarded as the 
apex of incongruity, as running mates 
for a rough finished checked suiting. 
And that’s as good a way as any to 


88 


account for the fact that they are now 
ealmly accepted, even by oldsters, as 
the last word. The topcoat, too, falls in 
line with the big parade toward soft 
handling rough textures, but does it, so 
to speak, with fingers crossed, because 
its outward eonformity to this trend is 
only a mask for an inward adherence to 
the practical demand for longer wear 
than the soft fabries ean give. Its back 
is а sturdy hard-wearing worsted, al- 
though the outer surface is a soft han- 
dling cassimere. Topeoats get such a 
deal of knoeking around that this com- 
promise between the fashionable and 
the practical would seem to be very well 
advised. Horizontal ribbing, instead of 
the usual vertical, gives a new quirk to 
plain eolored shirts, and the eombination 
of satin and basket weave stripes does 
the same thing for rep neckties. Appen- 
zell initialed handkerchiefs are good. 


THE RACETRACK 
SUIT CAN ENTER 


ANY OFFICE NOW 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


ALIBI IN A ROADHOUSE 


Continued from page 73 

her arms about the neck of her companion. But 
B. F. Smith put her aside with great gentleness and 
walking softly forward, stood beside the fallen 
body. ... He touched it delicately with his foot. 

„He's dead, Hamilton," he said, at length, in a 
low voice. For God's sake, keep your light on! It 
would be terrible for the women if it were to 
go out.” 

Stooping, he turned the body upon its back, 
revealing the mired features. The light fell whitely 
on the staring eyes, the twisted, leering mouth... 
The shirt was stained with blood. 

Hamilton moved to his side and together they 
looked down on the dead face. 

“Sollberg,” said the little broker, after a mo- 
meny тапа. the other shuddered. “Тһе owner of this 

ace! 

Е “Не was at the door when І came in—less than 
two hours ago," said Hamilton. He turned his 
head. . . . Hurry back to the Casino, Coleman, 
and bring Madan here. It looks to me like murder. 
... Take the women with you." 

Miss Carroll spoke quickly, in a clear voice. 
*Madan is coming now, I think," she said. 
"Listen!" 

Footsteps were sounding in the near distance, 
and muffled voices. . . . A light was dancing along 
the winding path behind them. . . . Then two men 
came swiftly around a turning and confronted 
them.... A tall man with mocking eyes and grim, 
tight mouth; that was Madan the detective. . . . In 
his companion Hamilton recognized with amaze- 
ment the burly musician who had played the 
violin. . . . 

“I am Gary Hamilton, Mr. Madan,” said Ham- 
ilton. *I am afraid a murder had been committed 
here. Your arrival is most opportune." 

The detective's eyes came round to those of 
B. F. Smith. . . . “What have you to reports 
Smith?” he asked abruptly. “Alfredo tells me that 
Hamilton left the Casino more than an hour ago, 
with one of the dancers, and that Sollberg fol- 
lowed him.” 

“Then that is why it happened,” said B. F. 
Smith, his face lighting. “I could not see the im- 
mediate motive. . . . Well, sir, ll tell you all about 
it. I met this Hamilton through Stuyvesant the 
banker, as you suggested, and—” 

*What on earth are you two talkinz about?" 
screamed Gary Hamilton. 

“Keep still," commanded Madan coldly. He's 
telling you all about it.” 

“I met him through Mr. Stuyvesant, as you sug- 
gested, and trailed him all the afternoon, sir. I 
learned that he was coming here, tonight, and so 
I got here first. . . . Coleman brought the girls 
along, sir, as а bit of local color," chuckled B. F. 
Smith. 

“You saw Hamilton when he came in, then.” 

“Yes, sir. I saw him speak to Sollberg at the 
door. Ї had already arranged with Sollberg, how- 
ever, to give Alfredo a seat in the orchestra. I told 
him we were watching for a celebrated crook.” 

“Go on," said Madan. 

“When he saw us at the table he was very happy. 
He begged to join us. Later, when he was dancing 
with Miss Carroll, he begged to be excused; and he 
was gone for twenty minutes— visiting friends, he 
said, when he came back. I think we know now 
what he was really doing." 

The musician broke in with passionate excite- 
ment. . . . “I see him leave Mees Carroll, Mr. 
Madan! I watch him close, and he slip out the 
door. Pretty soon thees girl Teresa follow him! 
Mr. Sollberg see it too—he follow both of them. 
But—alas!—I am just then playing on the fiddle; 
and so..." He finished with а shrug. 

“Yes, yes," said Madan impatiently, “you told 
me that, Alfredo. . . . What else, Smith?" 

“T suppose I should have followed him," said 
B. F. Smith regretfully. *I was afraid I might be- 
tray us all, sir. . . . Well, when you came in I called 
attention to you. He pretended that he knew you 
and wished to speak with you. He made no further 
effort, however, in that direction. It was obvious 
your presence bothered him. . . . This murder was 
on his mind, of course, although I didn't guess it. 
I think he then resolved on the bold course of 
bringing us to this spot himself, to have a group of 
witnesses about him when the body was discov- 
ered.” 

Hamilton broke in scornfully. “You are accus- 
ing me then of murdering this gentleman?” 

“Oh yes,” said B. F. Smith, with his engaging 
smile. “I thought you knew! . . . You see, sir, he 
had already told Miss Carroll that he had never 
been to this place before; yet everything he said 
thereafter proved it to be false. It was he who told 
her of this crooked path, and even suggested that 
we visit it... . He knew precisely, in the darkness, 
where the bridge was located, though no one else 
could even see it. Until Coleman produced that 
silly light of his, he proved himself familiar with 
every step of this infernal maze. . .. He was behind 
both Coleman and Miss Carroll all the way; yet it 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


was he who discovered the body before any one of 
us had seen it—before it was possible to see it! He 
actually led us to the sp . [knew that he had 
been this way before. . . . Why, Coleman couldn't 
even find the body with a light till Hamilton ran 
forward and took the thing away from him." 

“Do you mind," asked Hamilton politely, “tell- 
ing me exactly who in hell you аге?” 

“Mr. Smith is my assistant," answered Falkner 
Madan. So are all the others.. . . Is there any- 
thing else, Smith?" 

“Just this,” said B. F. Smith, and he walked a 
little farther in among the trees and plucked a 
silver spangle from a bit of roughened bark. 
“Teresa was the accidental lure; this is a spangle 
from her dress. I’m glad I noticed it before we left! 
. . . Sollberg wanted her for himself, you see—but 
Teresa wanted Hamilton. When Sollberg followed 
there was a quarrel, and then —/Ais/" He shrugged. 
. . . “No doubt Teresa has the pistol— Teresa or 
the river!" 

“Не would have killed me if he could," said 
Hamilton. 

Falkner Madan nodded. “No doubt that is true. 
It would perhaps have been easier that way for us. 
. . . Our instructions from your board of directors, 
Hamilton, were merely to keep you constantly in 
sight, when it was expected you would try to flee 
the country wich your loot. . . . However, there is 
good reason now for locking you away. ... For 
some time to come, I fancy, your vietims will know 
precisely where you are!" 


PRODIGAL SON OF PARIS 
Continued from page 50 

Pascin's first sojourn in New York coincided with 
the visit there of a very wealthy lady illustrator 
from Paris, Mlle. Н. D. Meeting Pascin, she 
sought to rescue him from his commercial work. 
She was able, and she offered, to put an end to his 
financial worries. They married and returned to 
Paris and his *second period.” 

Things went very smoothly. His wife encour- 
aged him and financed him, brought his paintings 
to the attention of collectors. His name grew. 

But—there was always a “but” with Pasein, a 
contrast, the man lived in contrasts—onto the 
scene came Mme. L. There was no violent break 
with his wife. He loved her and respected her, but 
he lived with Mme. L. 

But this, too, could not last. Nothing could 
last for Pascin. It could only begin, cease, and 
resume. The fever for far places was always coming 
over him. Now he kept a studio in New York. He 
became a naturalized American citizen. But al- 
ways he was coming back, from there or from any- 
where, to Paris. Cuba, Mexico, Florida, Algiers, 
Spain—but he came back to Paris always. 

The fever for drinking, too, was strong. He 
drank, I think, to be alone. Yet he was always 
surrounded by a crowd in these bouts, he was 
always paying the bills at the bar for anyone, 
stranger or friend, who happened to be near him. 

He lived with a gay and reckless prodigality, but 
he brooded constantly“ the hard fate of strug- 
gling humanity” was the only explanation he 
would vouchsafe when questioned about this 
moroseness into which he so often fell while he 
painted. He was a pessimist, though perhaps not 
a cynic, leading the life of an optimist. The little 
French models, when out of work, relied upon 
Pascin, and that reliance was never denied, an 
advance of money was never refused. 

He understood human sorrows as well as he 
understood the color tints of the flesh. His color 
sensitivity and love for the human figure mixed 
with the deep painful loneliness that always 
accompanied him. The artist is a yea-sayer to life, 
in that life interests him sufficiently to make him 
want to paint. And the artist in Pascin overpow- 
ered the pessimist, never without a struggle and 
not for long, but enough to make him paint with 
such enthusiasm and zeal that, looking at his 
figures, you feel both Pascin the pessimist and 
Pascin the one who rejoices in painting. And if you 
cannot feel this contrast you are not getting what 
is in the paintings. 

And now I am on that ground where the angels 
fear to tread. One should not attempt, ever, to be 
didactic about the appreciation of art, and least 
of all in a magazine that is not printed for artists. 
But it is folly to reproduce Pascin’s pictures if they 
will not be understood. There is food for under- 
standing in them for every man, though most of all, 
of course, for the artist. Yet it is there for every 
man who will trouble himself to look for it. An 
artist conveys his color moods to those persons 
who are willing to feel them as he himself felt them. 
Pascin was a creator. His creation was not just 
seeing and painting, but feeling the essentials of 
the color tones that his arrangements of figures 
offered him. To this extent, then, and to this 
extent only, his palette was the filter of his per- 
sonality. Апа of the strange duality of that per- 
sonality I have already told you. 


Look at the painting with this ia mind. It isa 
characteristic example of Pascin's art. Think of it 
not merely as a picture of a woman, but as a per- 
manent record, on canvas, of the impression made 
upon Pascin’s mind by the image of a woman's 
body in his eyes, a record that sets down, in paint, 
the meaning of her body as translated by Pascin's 
mind, conditioned by his mood and personality. 
Pascin was a creator. Creative minds take what 
they want from nature and do not photographi- 
cally copy her. The result is exquisiteness of color 
and line. 

If you want to see the greatness of Pascin's art 
do not look for pictures but for color sensitivity 
and for tender lines. Look for those things and 
you will begin to see and feel his nervousness, his 
restless tension, the strange stamp of his per- 
sonality. 

What is there left to say about him, beyond 
that? He is dead. As dead as Baudelaire, as dead 
as Poe. And yet more living than the former, as 
much alive as the latter. He is the spiritual kin 
of both of them. 

I remember that he told me, once, that life was 
too hard and that he would end it some day. He 
said that only once, in the long time that I knew 
him. I thought it was a passing mood and, on that 
occasion, I was right. But a day came when that 
mood did not pass. 

Any moralist, studying his case history, would 
call him weak. But he had a will, and courage and 
determination. He kept them in the moment. of 
renunciation. After he had opened the veins in his 
hands, he tied his feet, and then he hanged himself 
from the top of his studio door. 

'There were fantastic legends told of him before 
his death, and stranger still have been told since. 
Queer nonsense, hinting of royal bastardy in un- 
savory surroundings, glamorous in a dirty sort of 
way. It is all foolish and futile, too. It can add 
nothing and it can take nothing away —it is all in 
the paintings. 

In a monograph published in Paris the year 
before Pascin's death, Yvan Goll spoke of him as 
one who traveled through life like a king who has 
lost his crown, but kept his majesty. I have thought 
à good deal, as a friend of Pascin, about the fitness 
of that phrase. I could not then, and cannot now, 
invent a better one. 


AUGUST AFTERNOON 
Continued from page 22 

that thing. Mr. Vic, I surely can't accommodate 
you this time. If you want that white-folk's knife. 
you'll just be bound to get it yourself, Mr. Vic." 

Vic cursed him. 

Hubert backed away until he was at the end of 
the porch. He kept on looking behind him all the 
time, looking to be certain of the exact location of 
the sycamore stump that was between him and the 
pine grove on the other side of the cotton field. 

Vic called to Hubert and told him to come back. 
Hubert came slowly around the corner of the porch 
and stood a few feet from the quilt where Vie was 
sitting. His lips quivered and the whites of his 
eyes grew larger. Vie motioned for him to come 
closer, but he would not come an inch farther. 

“How old are you?" Floyd asked Willie. 

“Fifteen.” 

Floyd jerked the knife out of the wood and 
thrust it deeper in the same place. 

“How old are you?” she asked him. 

“About twenty-seven.” 

“Are you married?" 

“Not now,” he said. *How long have you been?” 

“About three months," Willie said. 

“How do you like it?” 

“Pretty good so far.” 

“How about another kiss?” 

* You've just had one." 

“Pd like another one now." 

“I ought not to let you kiss me again.” 

“Why not?” Floyd said. 

“Men don’t like girls who kiss too much.” 

I'm not that kind." 

“What kind are you?" Willie asked him. 

“Pd like to kiss you a lot.” 

“But after I let you do that, you'd go away." 

“No, I won't. I'll stay for something else.” 

“What?” 

"Let's go inside for a drink and I'll tell you.” 

“We'll have to go to the spring for fresh water.“ 

Where's the spring?“ 

“Just across the field in the grove.” 

“All right," Floyd said, standing up. “её go." 

He bent down and pulled the knife out of the 
wood. Willie ran down the steps and across the 
yard. When Floyd saw that she was not going to 
wait for him, he ran after her, holding the knives 
in his pocket with one hand. She led him across 
the cotton field to the spring in the pine grove. 
Just before they got there, Floyd caught her by 
the arm and ran beside her the rest of the way. 

“Boss,” Hubert said, “we ain't aiming to have 
no trouble today, are we?" 

Continued on page 110 


89 


“ОҺ-Һо, stealing apples are we?” 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


ALL IN А MAN’S READING 


Notes on books both current 
and recent, and on a few that 
were undeservedly overlooked 


by JAMES Т. FARRELL 


HEODOR PrivirER is one of the German 

authors who were forced to flee Ger- 
many in order to escape the Hitler regime. 
It is said that he made his escape with ex- 
treme difficulties, losing all his possessions 
except the half-completed manuscript of 
his next novel. His novel, The Kaiser Goes, 
The Generals Remain" (Macmillan $2.00) 
ean give Amerieans much information to- 
wards the understanding of post-war Ger- 
many. It is the story of the German 
revolution of November 1918, and its theme 
is events rather than characters. Much of 
the material is strictly historical, presented 
without exaggeration. Also, many of his 
characters are of historic importance, the 
Kaiser, the Crown Prince, Ebert, Lieb- 
knecht. The novel presents the causes of the 
breakdown in Germany, widespread misery 
at home, timidity and dissension amongst 
the rulers, and defeat on the battlefields. 
Out of these circumstances, the people 
were driven into revolution, while the 
rulers parleyed, and the Kaiser delayed 
abdicating his throne until it was too late. 
The author describes the resultant out- 
bursts, the mutiny at Kiel, the raising of 
red flags, the people marching, with the 
soldiers going over with them, the bicker- 
ings and futile plannings of the authorities. 
The chapter dealing with events in Berlin 
is particularly thrilling, and causes one to 
reflect over the contrasts in Berlin in those 
days, and the wild hilarity of our own 
Armistice Day. Also, the author makes clear 
the position of the Social Democrats, and 
why they were doomed to a failure as 
ignominious as that which they eventually 
suffered with the rise of National Socialism. 
This point is the key to the title and the 
author’s primary intent. The Kaiser went. 
The Social Democrats secured control of 
the Revolution, but to do so, they were 
forced to rely on the army. Hence, the 
generals remained and the old regime did 
not go out completely. The Socialists com- 
menced ruling in a compromise position. 
The seeds were sown for Hitlerism. This is 
a novel used for instructive purposes, and 
to convey historical information. Also it is 
a successful experiment. 


HE Chicago Fair, like Hitlerism and 

Germany, has been brought much into 
the popular consciousness. A number of books 
describing the rise of Chicago as a metrop- 
olis, have been issued. Most of these have 
exuded with civic virtue, and the exalta- 
tion of large buildings, regardless of their 
human cost. Hence, a history like Edgar 
Lee Masters’ “Тһе Tale of Chicago“ (Put- 
nam’s $3.75) is tonic. It is an uneven book, 
and largely motivated by the author’s 
hates. Also it contains much careless writing. 
Despite such characteristics, it makes ex- 
citing reading, and will give one a sense of 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


the growth of Chicago as few other books 
сап. Two sections of it, a description of the 
Chieago fire, and an analysis of Samuel 
Insull and Al Capone, are particularly 
notable pieces of writing. 


*"(AALEBIAN's Progress’ (Coviei Friede 

$2.25) by Frank Tilsley is an English 
first novel dramatizing the experiences of а 
young man who belonged to the generation 
that was too young to fight. It is a tragic 
story of the depression, done with insight and 
sympathy. It is mainly significant because 
it shows, clearly, how unemployment, and 
its consequent hopelessness, causes a tre- 
mendous drive towards personal disintegra- 
tion. Also the author builds some excellent 
scenes around the English dole system. The 
denouement is more melodrama than 
tragedy, causing something of a let-down. 
Withal, ‘‘Plebian’s Progress” is a moving 
first novel, well worth being read. 


RECENT book which will balance with 
“Plebian’s Progress" is Business Is 
Business" (Knopf $2.00) by Basil D. Nich- 
olson. It is a satire on modern business, 
swiftly paced (except for a few unnecessary 
lapses into excessive description) and amus- 
ing. The protagonist is a boy of thirteen who 
commences a skyrocketing career of 
petty thievery, high finance, confidence 
games and promiscuous loving in the Poly- 
nesians. He involves the American navy, 
Oxford University, and almost all of Eng- 
land in his wild rise. His last manipulation 
is a corporation whose ultimate purpose is 
that of transporting tourists to the moon. 
The scheme sells, and even creates inter- 
national rivalry between England, the 
United States, and Japan, as to which 
nation will be the first to send a rocket to 
the moon. The protagonist turns in a neat 
profit, and sends off a cheap rocket. But 
he is shot by an irate husband, and at the 
end, wangles himself into heaven to become 
an archangel. It is good satire, and makes 
quick, pleasant reading, even though the 
author’s effects are partially diluted by a 
sheer excess of villainy. 


“ HE Autobiography of An Irish Liver- 

pool Slummy”’ by Pat O’Mara, (Van- 
guard Press $2.50), and Down and Out in 
Paris and London” (Harpers $2.50) by 
George Orwell, are books complementing 
each other. O' Mara describes the Irish slums 
of Liverpool, presenting a frank and pro- 
foundly revealing account of the lives of 
the poor. It deals with the author’s own 


family and their struggles, with street 
brawls, riots, religious disturbances, the life 
and games of boys on the street. In brief, it 
is a full book, notable for its extreme 
honesty. Mr. Orwell’s volume presents 
poverty in Paris and London. It is most 
notable for its descriptions of the life of 
plongeurs, generally handy men and dish- 
washers, in a smart and recognizable 
Parisian hotel near the Place du Concorde. 
The two books together have the further 
value of contrasting the national tempera- 
ments, so-called, of the English, French, 
and Irish. 


“ wENTY Years A-Growing" (Viking 

$2.50) stands in eontradistinetion to 
the books of Orwell and O'Mara. The author 
was raised on the bleak Blasket Isles off 
the Kerry coast, and is now an Irish police- 
man. Here he gives а simple, cherished 


account of the life on these isles, exulting 


in all the little routine of the simple people. 
He wrote originally in Gaelie, and his work 
has been translated into English-Irish 
rhythms. It has streaks of genuine poetry, 
and is a minor folk piece of definite charm. 


Т is not the purpose of а quarterly to be 
as contemporary and journalistic in its 
treatments of books as a daily newspaper. 
Rather comments on books in a quarterly 
are second thoughts, devised to suggest 
those that may have been neglected. Thus, 
it is apropos to mention a few less recent 
books which deserve not to be forgotten. 
One such is From Flushing to Calvary" 
(Harcourt Brace $2.50) by Edward Dahl- 
berg. Dahlberg is outstanding amongst the 
younger American novelists, and in this book 
he has one of the most remarkable character 
portraits to be found in contemporary Amer- 
ican writing. The Water Wheel" by Julian 
Shapiro (The Dragon Press, distributed by 
Duffield & Green $2.50) is a first novel 
published in the earlier part of the year. 
It is a study of a late stage of what is called 
adolescence, and contains some scintillating 
and brilliant writing. The Saint and Mary 
Kate" by Frank O'Connor (Macmillan $2.50) 
is a novel over a year old, and apparently 
forgotten. Withal, it is almost a great book. 
The story deals with Cork tenements, and 
is written with a mixture of tenderness and 
irony. It is most remarkable for its incisive 
character portraits. Finally, there is No 
Retreat" (Harcourt Brace $2.00) by Horace 
Gregory, one of the few books of genuine 
and moving poetry that has appeared in 
the last year. It is, largely, a book of 
elegies, but noteworthy for its music, and 
for a fine group of lyric poems, Poems to 
My Daughter.” 


91 


STONEWALL AND IVY 


Continued from page 25 

and switching her little fanny around, and spoiled 
rotten. That's the way she grew up too, only get- 
ting worse as she got older. Her father must have 
spent all his spare time taking photograhs of her, 
because his windows was always full of Ivy's pic- 
tures—soulful, smirking, or smelling a rose. At 
thirteen the boys was taking her to the dances at 
Fry's Spring, and every time a car passed the gym 
late at night and I heard shrieks and giggles, I 
knew it was Ivy in the rumble seat. 

After five or six years Ivy'd had so many bo: 
friends the gang down at the poolroom got to call- 
ing her the Widow Rogers, but did that faze her? 
She just kept getting flossier and prettier every 
year, if you like them dizzy blondes. But she had 
brains too, you have to hand her that. She worked 
as a sort of travelling secretary between the profs, 
and there was always a whole raft of rumors about. 
those travels. I don't know how I come to know 
all this, but in a college town there don't much 
happen but what everybody hears it. 

This was the Ivy that moved into my office to 
help write my letters and file the clippings, and of 
course that's how she come to meet Stonewall. 

'The season was nearly over when our Freshmen 
took Navy's great Plebe team into camp, hanging 
the goose egg of a 41-0 score on their necks; and 
the next Monday I get more fan-mail than Rudy 
Valley. Torrey and Paisley and Perry Ringler 
and Corny Bates—all my old gang from the team 
that tied Yale in '21—kept piling me with ques- 
tions and congrats about Stonewall, and I sit right 
down and write every one of 'em a long letter, 
which Ivy types. 

When she gets "em all finished she sways in with 
the letters for me to sign. She leans over the desk, 
turns on the floodlights in them big blue eyes of 
hers, and drawls: 

“I just saw his picture, and I doan think I know 
this boy Tayloe Jackson, Mister Reeves. Is he a 
fuhst-year man?" 

Ilook up from the catalog I'm reading and stare 
at her steady for a minute. 

Hands off that boy, Ivy,” I says. “You got two 
thousand others to pick from. Besides," I add, 
“he’s gonna be plenty busy from now on." 

She just stood there by the window, running one 
hand slowly over her hair, and smiling. 

Mister Reeves,” she turns to me, you prob'ly 
never spoke a truer word.” 

* * * 

Tn another week we wound up the season with 
Carolina, or vice versus, as the Tar-Heels even 
took our goal-posts back on the train, and Ivy 
moved on to greener pastures—the greenest there 
is, a small-town Freshman. I didn't stir а finger 
against it, though I hear they're always together. 
After the boys turn in their uniforms what they do 
is their own business. Only I won't stand for 
drinking, not this rot-gut corn. Besides, I figured 
Stonewall would be just page 267 on Ivy's love 
Calendar, and be all washed up by Christmas. 

As it turned out, I couldn't of been more wrong. 

One night about a week after I come back from 
seeing the Army-Navy game there's a clear cold 
moon and a light frost, weather I like to walk and 
think in. I knew I'd have to get а complete new 
set of plays for next year, and one of them Army 
spinners Í saw struck me as a natural for Stone- 
wall. A real honey it was, masked so's you never 
saw the runner until he was headed for the barn. 
I wanted to think it over, so I strolled along the 
lake and up the path by the Petting Pits. 

"These Petting Pitsis a greatinstitution at Jeffer- 
son. They was built by the Confederates during the 
Civil War as a powder arsenal, and never filled in. 
It's just а deep hole in the hillside with trees grow- 
ing over the top, so in Summer nobody can see 
what goes on, which they tell me is just as well. 
But in Winter of course the trees is bare, and from 
the path along the top you can see as clear as look- 
ing into а barrel, specially when there is а moon, 
and you can hear a hairpin drop. 

I’m ambling along this path figuring who’d take 
out the left halfback when I hear sounds coming 
out of the pit. Now Lain't no Eavesdropping Eddie 
but all of a sudden I recognize Stonewall’s foghorn 
voice. 

“Tt isn’t that, Ivy," he was explaining. I guess 
I love you all right, but after all I got my future 
to think of.” 

“Your future! Your future!” I could hear Ivy’s 
foot tapping a rock. She’d probably run into these 
futures before. What about mine, Tayloe? What 
about ours?" 

**Golly, Ivy, you know how I want to—but they 
wouldn't let me play football if I was married. 
It's a rule." 

Hey what the hell, I thought, and leaned up 
against a tree. 

“What do you mean football?” Ivy exploded. 
„When we're married we're both going to get so 
far away from this darn place we'll“ 

“Who said so?" And Stonewall's voice was hard 
аз a gong. I'm going to finish at Jeff, Ivy, so don’t 


92 


you go getting that idea. Maybe we can get mar- 
ried next fall when I'm twenty-one, but even if I 
have to give up football I'm staying on right here!" 

Then Ivy starts crying and they go into a clinch. 

I got on a heavy mackinaw and a muffler, but 
I'm in a cold sweat when I turn back down the 
path. When I get home I build a big fire and get 
out my keg, and sit up all night worrying. If Ivy 
works fast Í got to work faster, and with the pace 
she's setting I see that's going to be like Man o' 
War racing downhill on skates. It’s six o'clock and 
getting light before my scheme hits me. I remem- 
ber going out on the porch and watching the sun 
come up over the stadium, and whistling out loud, 
something I don’t often do. 

There ain’t but one flue I can find in my plan 
and that’s this: I have to wait until the boys come 
back in the fall before I can spring it. I figure if 
only Ivy coasts along on the promise and don’t 
start any tricks I'll be safe. I go over the Regis- 
trar’s files and discover Stonewall won’t be twenty- 
one until October 12th, which gives me six weeks 
to work after we begin practice. 

All last Spring and Summer I’m on pins and 
needles. I get Stonewall to come out for Track 
and throw the hammer so’s he’ll be too tired at 
night to see Ivy. A dozen times I'm on the verge 
of giving him a heart-to-heart talk and the low- 
down, but I’m worried how he’d take it and I hold 
my tongue. In May I write to Corny Bates out in 
Kentucky to get a job for Stonewall with the high- 
ways, driving a truck or anything, just so Ivy 
can’t get to him, and when finally I put the boy on 
the train in June I draw a breath so deep a brake- 
man standing next to me jumps ten feet, thinking 
it’s an express going by. 

I stick around school until August, fishing in the 
days and working out plays at night. Once I go to 
the movies and sit next to Ivy and a little dark fel- 
low she introduces to me as Dr. Mateos, the Span- 
ish professor in the Summer School. I’m dying to 
ask her what she hears from Stonewall but just 
then the news reel comes on and I don’t want to 
miss nothing. However, I see out the corner of my 
eye that she’s holding his hand, and I smile to my- 
self, specially when the Spaniard gets to wiggling 
and arching his eyes at her. As a coach that’s one 
thing I can say for Ivy, she never got out of train- 
ing all the time I knew her. 

Right after Labor Day the boys start pouring in 
and I’m meeting every train. Somehow they look 
bigger to me and they’re all as tanned as saddles. 
Just when I’m starting to get anxious Stonewall 
steps off a local, grins and tosses his bags at me. 
Right away I see he’s packed on at least another 
five pounds of muscle across the shoulders and 
I'm reaching out. to shake his hand when Ivy 
comes out of nowhere and slips in ahead of me. 
They don't kiss there on the platform but I felt 
like there's a guy walking all around us holding up 
a big sign marked LOVE, it’s so clear. Ivy rides 
back to the post-office with us, and then I drive 
Stonewall over to his rooms. 

“They don't make many girls like Ivy, coach,” 
he begins. 

“No, the patent’s run out,” I replies. 

“Why she's as much a part of Jefferson as... as 
the statue, or the green street cars,” he raves on. 

“Sure. Only her line’s longer,” I says. 

He turns around to me. “Why don’t you like 
her?” he wants to know. “You got vinegar in 
your veins?” 

“T get hay fever every year this time,” I explain, 
“and it don’t go away until the sap’s left the ivy.“ 
That one goes past his head. 

Well, I see it won’t be no use to argue, because 
he’s still in a bad way. That night I get off six 
long letters, all exactly alike, to Perry and Dink 
Torrey and Corny Bates and three more boys from 
different teams of mine, explaining the whole situa- 
tion and what I’d planned to do. I wound up by 
begging ’em all to be back for the opening рате 
with Roanoke if they gave two raps for Jeff’s 
chances against Navy and Princeton. They was 
swell letters and I laid it on thick about the Old 
Spirit. In a post script I added I’d dug up five 
gallons of Afton dew three years old and smooth 
as a cue ball. I had, too. 

While I'm waiting for the answers I drive that 
squad like a twenty-mule team, and the way they 
pull together right from the start is heart's balm 
to these old veins. If you was there when we swung 
into action against Penn or Princeton you know 
how they looked—a front wall which charges like 
the Prussian Guards, and a backfield that's just 
three husky Tiller girls prancing around a un- 
leashed lion. That’s Stonewall. He’s the spear’s 
head of my attack and a world wind on defense. 
Gee, I been reading our press clippings so much I 
even get to talk like'em. Anyway, I know I got a 
team at last, and I’m worried sick somebody'll 
break a leg or pull a charley horse, or any one of 
those thousand and one things. Specially as at 
every practice I see my biggest accident sitting up 
there in the stands waiting to happen. With the 
wedding bells already bonging in her ears Ivy 
don’t miss a trick. Her eyes follows Stonewall’s 
every move. 


In a week the boys has all replied saying they'll 
be here, so I’m ready for my next play. I drop in 
on a fellow named Bob Weaver, one of my quarter- 
milers, who works part time for Ivy’s old man. I 
tell him honestly the boys is getting up a little sur- 
prise for Ivy, a sort of centennial, and what they 
needs most is six of her photographs, taken at all 
ages from sixteen up. “Can he get ’em?” I asks. 

Sure, Bob grins, “the shop’s lousy with em. 
We even got one of her lying bottoms up on a bear 
rug, holding а wooly rabbit. I'll bring em all 
around when I leave tonight.” 

The pictures turns out to be all I could ask for, 
and more. Then I dig up a sample of Ivy's flashy 
handwriting from the files, and after practicing a 
couple of hours I lay the pictures in front of me on 
the table and sign 'em slowly in her big bold 
letters, like this: 


For Perry darling, my one Love. Ivy 
My own little Dink. X X X. Ivy 
To the One and Only Corny, from Ivy 
For my Pit Cave-Man. Ivy 
Carter, my Dream Boy of '22. Ivy 


For Buck, in Memory of One Night in 
23. Ivy. 


We're only two weeks to October 12th and I'm 
afraid Stonewall and Ivy'll up and jump the gun 
any day, when it's the Friday before our first 
game and the old boys drop in on me right on 
schedule. Most of 'em I hadn't seen in ten years, 
so's it's three hours and two gallons before I get 
around to telling 'em about the Ivy menace and 
how I plan to squash it once and for all. After I get 
through with my story and hand out the pictures 
they all just sit back and howl, but I figure that's 
the corn. When Perry finally gets so he can talk 
he reaches over and slaps me on the shoulder. 

“Doe you old sinner,” he gasps, you'd sell your 
liver to win a ball game! Besides," he adds, it's 
about time Ivy settled down." 

“Му liver ain't worth a ball game," I says. 
“Апа Ivy don't settle down on no fullback of 
mine. Not when he can rifle a pass through a key- 
hole at forty yards." 

“Ts he really hot stuff, Doc?" they all want to 
know. 

I ups the jug and study my glass a minute in 
the sunlight. 

„He's what I been waiting for ever since Jim 
Thorpe quit the game, and that's a long time ago.” 
I nearly chokes saying it too. 

'The boys just looks at each other and then back 
at me. 

“О. K., Doc,” they says. We're on.” 

I'd fixed up these boys with rooms scattered 
around the campus, and our play was that that 
night between eight and ten they'd clear out and call 
on Ivy. They all knew her, though she'd been just a 
gangling kid in their day, so I didn't have no wor- 
ries about that. Before he left his room each of 
the boys was to take the picture I'd give him and 
stick it on his dresser or over the mantle where it 
couldn’t be missed by anybody who came in. 

Practice that afternoon was cut down to a signal 
drill and polishing up the passes, and I let ’em 
off early. As they was running off the field I called 
out to Stonewall. He came over smiling and trot- 
ting in that easy-swinging way a race horse does. 

“They’s some old Jeff boys here I want you to 
meet, Stonewall,” I says. “Old football men of 
mine. Suppose you call over around eight thirty.” 

His face drops. “I got a sort of early date, 
Coach,” he explains. Maybe I could come over 
later—” 

“Whatcha mean, later?” I barks. “You got to 
be in bed by ten o'clock." 

“О. К.” he replies, and jogs away. 

I'm all nerves sitting at home waiting, but when 
finally I hear Stonewall on the porch I pretend I'm 
reading the paper. He comes in, looks around and 
sits down. 

“Take off your coat," I says. 

“Honest, Coach, I can’t stay a minute," he 
begins. I notice he keep fumbling in his coat 
pocket and I see a little bulge sticking out there, 
like one of them jeweler's ring boxes. Suddenly 
my collar gets too tight on me and when I wipe 
my head my hand comes away wet. 

We must of sit there for five minutes in silence 
before I take out my watch. 

“Maybe the boys mistook me," I says. “You 
prob’ly better run over and introduce yourself. 
You don’t have to stay and talk to ет.” 

Stonewall jumps up. Where're they putting 
up?” he asks. 

I look all around the stuff on the table. “I got 
the list of rooms here somewhere,” I mumbles. I 
find it and give it to him. 

“You get to bed early!" I yells after him. 
“Don’t ever let no woman interfere with football.” 

About a half hour after he's gone I get up, put 
on my coat, walk all the way up that path by the 
Petting Pit, and wait. If it works out the way I 
figure it here's where the last act of Stonewall and 


Continued on page 110 
ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


THE ROUGH STUFF 
GOES OVER BIG 


IN TOWN CLOTHES 


ES QUIRE-— Autumn, 1933 


OWN clothes, it is apparent, are un- 


dergoing many changes. Here we 
have the omission of cuffs on the trou- 
sers and the addition of a ticket pocket 
placed just below the line at which the 
draped model gives a slight waist sup- 
pression. Cuffs have never been a neces- 
sity and have served in the past, aside 
from their somewhat dubious decorative 
function, chiefly as collectors of dust, 
matches and divers odd and various bits 
of rubbish. The herringbone pattern is 
enjoying renewed popularity with the 
trend toward soft rough fabries in suit- 
ings for town and business wear, and it 
lends itself very nicely to the double 
breasted model sketched here. A plain 
shoe, in black or briar brown—a deep 
rich reddish east—with a simple plain 
toecap and no punching or pinking; a 
demi-bosom shirt with cross stripes 
worn with a low front white laundered 


collar; and a dark solid color tie with a 
plain pearl stickpin—that rounds out to 
eompletion this formula for appearing 
to good advantage during the daylight 
hours. Out of deference to those men 
who have formed the habit of wearing 
foulard ties twelve months in the year, 
the new printed satin ties are now being 
made up in patterns that were hitherto 
considered characteristic foulard de- 
signs. Except for their heavier body, 
these ties really look very much like 
foulards, since the satin has been 
toned down somewhat to avoid over- 
shininess, but of course they wear 
much better. Vertical striped hosiery 
is well adapted for use with the sim- 
ple checked and herringbone suitings 
that are now so important as a result 
of the big swing to rougher textures 
in fabrics. Brace clips, attached to 
elastic cords, keep one's shirt down. 


93 


94 


* T know he's a millionaire 


ebe 


but then, money isn’t everything” 


ESQUIR E- Autumn, 1933 


OVERTURE: POET AND PUG 


Long before Byron boxed one 


Gentleman Jackson, poets and 


pugilists found common ground 


OMEONE once asked Daniel Boone 

whether he had ever been lost. “No,” 

he drawled, euffing his coonskin eap back 

from his forehead, no, not exactly lost, but 
once I was bewildered for three days." 

I have been bewildered for more than 
three days. Ever since I quit the ring, I 
have been amazed and a little nonplussed 
by the vast majority of people who regard 
my acquaintance among authors 
and my love of literature with 
astonishment and resentment. 
They seem to think that it is an 
unseemly thing for prizefighters 
to consort with professors. They 
regard it as somehow unmanly, 
even though they may have the 
greatest respect for the intelli- 
gentsia. To them, brains and 
brawn combine as badly as do 
December and May. It is incon- 
gruous; it is out of the natural 
proletarian order of our world, 
and they look upon me, the 
pugilist who reads poetry, as 
neither fish, flesh nor fowl. Some- 
times they criticize me for using 
it asa publicity stunt. Sometimes 
they merely regard me as a queer 
duck, a candidate for Ripley’s 
odditorium. 

I want to show in this article 
that the friendship of a prize- 
fighter and a poet has precedence 
in the world's history since the 
days of the ancient Greeks. I 
want to show that such a friend- 
ship is no reflection upon either 
of these professions. And I want 
to show this by examples taken 
from sources which nobody will 
dispute, from history and from 
the classies. 

But first let me say that my 
interest in literature never was 
intended to be used as a publie- 
ity stunt. Anybody who has fol- 
lowed my eareer in the ring 
knows that I was a poor boy, 
and that my cireumstanees in my 
early days were not in any way 
eonducive to artistie aspirations. It just hap- 
pened that I loved the arts. I learned that 
for myself. I read Shakespeare at first more 
or less by accident, and I found out that his 
plays and his poetry held something of 
value to me. Then I learned that other 
plays and other poetry, that books and art 
and musie held something of value. I was 
happier for knowing about them. I found 
that I liked to talk to people who knew 
about them. Everything that I learned was 
like а window opened suddenly to a new 
view of the world. 

So you see I am glad for that first read- 
ing of Shakespeare. I do not claim to have 
any partieular talents for writing. But I 
am grateful that I appreciate and enjoy 
poetry. And I ean say that I get as much 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


by GENE TUNNEY 


thrill and exultation from hearing Keats’ 
odes read by a cultivated and beautiful 
voice as I did in the ring from a clean well- 
timed punch. 

Let us go back in history and see what 
we can find. The Greeks were famous for 
their athletic prowess; they were famous as 
well for their poetry. A youth was trained 
to be competent in rhymes as in wrestling. 


p xem m 


Homer is the first poet to give an account 
of a hand-to-hand battle, blow by blow, 
and a very vivid and sensational aecount 
it is. Plato, philosopher and compiler of 
philosophies, wrote lyric poetry and was an 
excellent amateur wrestler in the gym- 
nasia. Aleibiades and Alexander the Great 
combined fists and philosophy, poetry and 
wars. 

David was a psalmist and a harp-player, 
but when the Israelites needed à champion 
he stepped out of the ranks and slew 
Goliath. Virgil was the friend and intellec- 
tual mentor of the great Augustus, who, on 
his campaigns, used to send couriers to the 
poet begging him for another eanto of the 
Aeneid, to help him during long and weary 
sieges. 


In the history of modern fighting there 
are plenty of instances of the union of 
poetry and pugilism. Figg, who is the first 
fighter of whom there is any real record, 
had many friends among the literati. He 
numbered Walpole, Swift, Pope, and the 
uncle of Sam Johnson among his immediate 
aequaintanees. The painter Hogarth, who 
often entertained him, designed his profes- 
sional eard. And he was received 
in the houses of the lords and 
ladies of England, even into the 
Royal Family itself, for he fre- 
quently dined in privaey with 
George the First; and the Earl of 
Peterborough, his first patron, 
included him in the family circle. 

George the Fourth was partial 
to boxing. He had many friends 
among the English pugilists. 
“Gentleman” Jackson, who was 
famous as the greatest fighter of 
the time, and who took the title 
from Mendoza by taeties which 
would scarcely be condoned 
under the Marquis of Queens- 
berry's rules, was the king's con- 
fidant, friend and personal body- 
guard. He had a place of honor 
at the eoronation; he kept in his 
rooms chests filled with presents 
from the royal palace, and one 
of his nicknames was Idol of the 
Prince Royal.” Incidentally, he 
was a friend of Byron, who oc- 
easionally engaged him in ama- 
teur combat. 

Daniel Donnelly was another 
protege of George the Fourth. 
It is said that the king knighted 
him, and as proof of that honor 
the following rhymes were in- 
seribed upon his gravestone: 
“Underneath this pillar high 
Lies Sir Daniel Donnelly. 

He was a stout and hardy man, 
And people called him ‘Buffing 

Dan.’ 

Knighthood he took from George’s 
sword, 

And well he wore it, by my word. 

He died at last from forty-seven 

Tumblers of stout he drank one even. 

O'erthrown by punch, unharmed by fist, 

He died unbeaten pugilist. 

Such a buffer as Donnelly 

Ireland never again will see.“ 


And there was Bob Gregson, who was 
ealled the Poet Laureate of the pugilists. 
He had high courage, but no science. He 
used to compose verses and ery them during 
his fights. Some of his poetry was collected 
in a volume by one of his patrons; I give a 
stanza for what it is worth. This is taken 
from a long poem celebrating the vietory 
of Tom Cribb over Molineaux, the great 


negro: 
Continued on page 109 


95 


95 


“Can’t you wait a minute? I want to hear your husband sing this song” 


ESQUIR E— 4utumn, 1933 


MARLIN OFF THE MORRO 


Continued from page 39 

lutely fresh bait caught that same day; if the 
bait were stale you might expect them all to refuse 
it once they had tasted it. This sort of fish can often 
be made to hit by speeding the boat up and skip- 
ping the bait over the top of the water with the 
rod. If he does take it, do not give him too much 
line before you hit him. 

The indifferent fish will follow the boat for as 
many as three or four miles. Looking the baits 
over, sheering away, coming back to swim deep 
down below them and follow, indifferent to the 
bait, yet curious. If such a fish swims with his 
pectoral fins tucked close to his sides he will not 
bite. He is cruising and you are on his course. 
That is all. The minute a marlin sees the bait, if he 
is going to strike, he raises his dorsal fin and 
spreads those wide, bright blue pectorals so that 
he looks like some great, under-sea bird in the 
water as he follows. 

The black marlin is a stupid fish. He is im- 
mensely powerful, can jump wonderfully and will 
у sounding but he has not the 
stamina of the striped marlin, nor his intelligence. 
I believe they are mostly old, female fish, past their 
prime and that it is age that gives them that black 
color. When they are younger they are much bluer 
and the meat, too, is whiter. If you fight them fast, 
never letting up, never resting, you can kill them 
quicker than you could ever kill a striped marlin 
of the same size. Their great strength makes them 
very dangerous for the first forty minutes. I mean 
dangerous to the tackle; no fish is dangerous to a 
man in a launch. But if you can take what they 
have to give during that time and keep working on 
them they will tire much quicker than any striped 
marlin. The 468 pounder was hooked in the roof of 
the mouth, was in no way tangled in the leader, 
jumped eight times completely clear, towed the 
boat stern first when held tight, sounded four 
times, but was brought to gaff at the top of the 
water, fin and tail out, in sixty-five minutes. But 
if I had not lost a much larger striped marlin the 
day before after two hours and twenty minutes, 
and fought a black one the day before for forty-five 
Iwould not have been in shape to work him so hard. 

Fishing in a five-mile-an-hour current, where a 
hooked fish will always swim against the current, 
where the water is from four hundred to seven hun- 
dred fathoms deep, there is much to learn about 
tactics in fighting big fish. But one myth that can 
be dissipated is the old one that the water pressure 
at one thousand feet will kill the fish. A marlin dies 
at the bottom only if he has been hooked in the 
belly. These fish are used to going to the bottom. 
They often feed there. They are not built like bot- 
tom fish which live always at the same depth but 


Smacks in Havana harbor 
—tarpon lie in the shade 
of these smacks 


ESOUInE- Autumn, 1933 


are built to be able to go up and down in any 
depth. I have had а marlin sound four hundred 
yards straight down, all the rod under water over 
the side, bent double with that weight going down, 
down, down, watching the line go, putting on all 
pressure possible on the reel to check him, him 
going down and down until you are sure every inch 
of line will go. Suddenly he stops sounding and 
you straighten up, get onto your feet, get the butt 
in the socket and work him up slowly, finally you 
have the double line on the reel and think he is 
coming to gaff and then the line begins to rip out 
as he hooks up and heads off to sea just under the 
surface to come out in ten long, clean jumps. This 
after an hour and a half of fight. Then to sound 
again. They are a fish all right. The 343 pounder 
jumped 44 times. 

You ean fish for them in Cuba from April all 
through the summer. Big ones will be accidental 
until the middle of June and we only saw four 
broadbill all season. But in July and August it is 
even money any day you go out that you will hook 
into a fish from three hundred pounds up. Up 
means a very long way up. The biggest marlin ever 
brought into the market by the commercial fisher- 
men weighed eleven hundred and seventy-five 
pounds with head cut off, gutted, tail cut off and 
flanks cut away; eleven hundred and seventy-five 
pounds when on the slab, nothing but the saleable 
meat ready to be cut into steaks. All right. You 
tell me. What did he weigh in the water and what 
did he look like when he jumped? 


(This is the first of a series of letters by Ernest 
Hemingway. The next one will be from Spain) 


Striped marlin weighing 


343 pounds 


Pauline Hemingway with 
first white marlin 


Another view of the 468 pound marlin 
shown on page 9, giving idea of size 


97 


THE NEW LEISURE 
Continued from page 13 
vulgar and debasing sex plays by the score. 

'There are other people who seek a social expres- 
sion apart from their work. The Rotary Clubs, 
Kiwanis Clubs and other similar organizations are 
evidence of this. These groups widen a man's in- 
terest in his fellow men. He is drawn out of his 
purely individualistic selfishness and has some con- 
cern for what is happening to his fellow men. 

As an example of what can be done by such 
organizations, let me cite the work of the Carnegie 
Endowment for International Peace which is form- 
ing groups to study International Relations all over 
this country and Europe. These groups consist of 
both young and older people who come together 
once a week or so. They discuss what they hear and 
read, and so greatly extend and deepen their interest. 
in current events. 

Groups such as these could be formed by political 
clubs or publie service clubs. Suppose they met 
every week or two and discussed not only national 
questions but also local ones. They would afford 
many an opportunity for improving their leisure and 
at the same time would bring about many reforms 
in local government and community life. 

'There are some parts of this country where the 
towns have no sidewalks. The reason is that the 
people are so individualistic that when they have 
made a path to the street their interest stops; they 
never give a thought to the man who walks in the 
street. Such people are not socially minded; if they 
can be made so during their leisure it will react for 
the benefit of the entire country as well for the 
benefit of the people themselves. 

Men and women differ enormously in their re- 
sponse to suggestions and directions. Some are 
easily fatigued and make very slight response. Their 
use of leisure is very apt to degenerate into mere 
laziness. Others show great response in many cases. 
In that case leisure becomes not only interesting in 
itself but vastly increases the interest and capacity 
for work. A man who understands the real use and 
enjoyment of leisure is a far better worker than he 
who does not. 

One of the things which Americans in particular 
find it very difficult to grasp is the fact that while a 
man can do 12 months' work in 9 months, he can not 
do it in 12 months. A man who works 9 months 
measured in hours and has fruitful and enjoyable 
leisure for 3 months will do more that is worth doing 
in a year's time than he who works 12 months with 
no leisure at all. 

In other words, properly used leisure increases 
the capacity for useful and productive work. When 
men get that into their heads, they will see the basis 
of a new argument for shorter hours of labor. That 
argument is not that shorter hours of labor will 
result in less work being done, but that it will result 
either in more work being done or in the same work 
being better done. 

Of course, this means that there should be no 
artificial limit put to a worker's power of production. 
He should lay as many bricks in a day as he com- 
fortably can without regard to the capacity of other 
people engaged in the same occupation. In this way 
the advantage of those things with which he occupies 
his leisure will manifest themselves in his capacity 
for work. 

We have a very long way to go in dealing with 
this question because there are parts of our own 
country and other countries in which the standard 
of living is still far below what it should be. This 
standard of living cannot be raised all at once, but 
nevertheless it should be our object to raise it by 
all means in our power and certainly to remove any 
obstacles, governmental or other, which may now 
stand in the way of its being raised. One great 
obstacle to the freer movement of international 
trade, which freer movement would be of such 
benefit to the people of the United States and to 
many other peoples as well, is that the condition of 
the workers in some lands is still so very low as to 
make it quite incommensurable with the condition 
which we have in mind for our own workers of today 
and tomorrow. This is an international problem of 
large importance and it will not down. 

Various nations have approached the problem of 
leisure in some definite fashion. The new govern- 
ment of Italy has developed a most extraordinarily 
brilliant program for the interesting and enjoyable 
use of leisure on the part of both children and adults. 
The German people have long had their own way 
of solving this problem and have made large use of 
music and of open air life. The French have done 
not so much. The British, like ourselves, are dealing 
with the problem now in serious and practical fash- 
ion and along very much the same lines that are 
projected and advocated in this country. 

The fundamental fact to be grasped is that work 
and leisure are two parts of one and the same thing, 


which is an interesting and useful life. He who does’ 


not work loses one of the greatest of life’s enjoy- 
ments, and he who has no adequate leisure and no 
knowledge of how to use that leisure is deprived of 
life’s greatest satisfaction. 


98 


THE PHANTOM CHAMPS 


Continued from page 56 
were weighing me in the balance of ability. 

Apparently they couldn’t make up their minds, 
and I sensed that I would have to stand the test— 
how would I fare with any one of them? I found 
myself wondering. I am glad to be able to report 
here truthfully that I was not afraid. In fact, I 
believe I welcomed the test, as I know now any 
of the old time champions would welcome the 
chance to meet any successor if it were possible, 
with both at the peak of their prowess. But alas, 
this can happen only in the imagination. 

That first night, there came the great Gans to 
try meout. Always the boxing writers have argued 
the respective ability of Gans and myself. Some 
thought Joe was the greatest of all hghtweights. 
Others flattered me by expressing the opinion that 
I represented а more advanced type of fighter- 
boxer. At any rate, that first night I found myself 
fighting the great Negro, and in the dim haze of the 
room the others stood around in judgment. АП I 
ever had heard of Gans, I suppose, crowded into 
my imaginary battle with him. Of course I must 
have fallen asleep, but it stands out vividly in my 
mind even today which is something remarkable 
for a dream to do—his masterful blocking, his deft 
hitting, his elusiveness and his sagacity. He feinted 
subtly, I recall, and if it means anything for the 
records, I lost that first fight with him—that 
imaginary contest, which lasted an arduous num- 
ber of rounds. 

I was all in the next day, and yet I daren't tell 
Gibson nor my trainer the cause of my fatigue, for 
fear they would make a laughing stock out of me. 
But it was the same thing the next night and the 
next. I simply couldn't get inured to the place. 
One after another, the ghostly galaxy of ring 
greats paraded forward, to cross gloves with the 
current champion, to see if he were worthy of the 
title they themselves had graced so nobly. 

And then, the very night before my fight with 
Ritchie, the spectral Gans and I met in our 
“return match.” This time it was I who won—so 
you see, the question of supremacy between us 
would still be a moot one, if these “fights” were 
taken as a criterion. I never had the good fortune 
to see the real Gans fight, but if I were privileged a 
revelation of his style that first night, I can realize 
well why his name will live forever among the 
illustrious ones of the prize-ring. 

And so, that night I faced Willie Ritchie, no 
wonder I lost! He’d brought his gang with him! 
And what a gang, all those phantom champs,to be 
faced by the Champion of Avenue A! 

Willie Ritchie was notoriously a “slow begin- 
ner,” but he had a reputation for remarkable 
stamina or staying powers. But somehow, I was 
unable to make the most of this, for I found my 
arms heavy and my fists leaden. I felt exactly as 
if I actually had gone through my imaginary bat- 
tles physically, and, whether it was all imagina- 
tion or not, I could feel bruised spots in my body, 
as if from heavy blows. I didn’t fight anywhere 
near to my form that night, according to those 
who had seen me in other contests. For myself, I 
know I didn’t. 

Thus it was that in the third round Ritchie 
caught me a beautiful smash right in the right eye, 
and the eye puffed up and popped out so far you 
could hang your hat and coat on it. It was a wow, 
and I could hear the late and lovable Tad Dorgan, 
famous newspaper sports cartoonist, going into 
rapturous wonderment at the fight. Tad, you 
might know, was a rabid "native" Californian, and 
he crowed gleefully as he clicked off on his type- 
writer the tale of my debacle. 

At the end of the fourth round, I was a comical 
sight, what with my right eye sticking so far out 
it looked like a beacon lamp. It made the feature 
of the fight stories sent out by the scribes covering 
the affair. 

In the dressing room after I had dressed, Gibson 
told me he and the rest of our party were going 
over to the Indoor Yacht Club, a rendezvous run 
by Jim Coffroth, the famous California sports 
promoter. 

“TIl meet you there later," I said. “I’m going 
to the hotel and fix up this eye." At the hotel 1 
put hot and cold applications on the injury, used 
witch hazel and did a few other things that finally 
brought the swelling down, so that I looked quite 
normal, except for a discoloration under the eye. 
This was easily camouflaged with cold cream and 
powder, and I sallied forth, to the Indoor Yacht 
Club. 

Arriving there, I went up to the bar, and placed 
my order for a chicken sandwich and a glass of 
milk. Then turning, I found myself face to face 
with dear old Tad. He was staring at me in un- 
mistakable astonishment. I grinned at him and 
asked him what was the matter. 

Pointing his right forefinger— Tad had only the 
forefinger and thumb on his right hand, the other 
three fingers having been severed at the hand in a 
childhood accident, leaving a hard, bony knob— 
pointing directly at my right eye, Tad demanded: 


Where's that eye?“ 

“What eye?" I dissembled. 

“That eye you got from Ritchie!" insisted Tad. 

“Why, Tad, I got no eye from Ritchie," I re- 
plied. Then Tad:— 

“Listen, I wrote my story for the paper back in 
New York, and I told all about that eye. I said 
you had an eye, and by Golly, you've got to have 
an eye!" 

And with that he let me have that bony fist 
right smack in the right eye, and in a flash it 
puffed out even further than it had been in the 
fight. I beat it back to the hotel and the hot 
towels, the witch hazel, and bed. 

And would you believe it, ever since that time, 
I've always welcomed fights with so-called “phan- 
toms" of the ring. They always proved to be my 
meat. 


I WAS. I AM. A SPY 

Continued from page 64 

nationals. When picked up by the gendarmes 
and the British M. P.s and taken to the Pre- 
fecture, I was to deny vigorously that I was 
Bennett and to insist that I was Howard, an 
American newspaper man. The Prefect, at my 
request, would send for Boileau of the Informa- 
tion to identify me. Boileau, to my apparent 
discomfiture, would fail to identify me and would 
suggest that a visit be made to the address on the 
Carte d’Identité. There Bennett’s passport faked 
up with my photo would be discovered. The 
British would then hang on to me with their 
famed bulldog tenacity. I would be taken to the 
recruiting office and impressed into service. Two 
of our men would be detailed to watch over me 
and if I were directed anywhere but to Marseilles, 
they would manage to get me out of British 
hands and in due time, as Howard, my apparent 
return from Morocco would be arranged and the 
British would list Bennett as a deserter. If I were 
directed to the mine-layers at Marseilles, I should 
use my ingenuity to discover what type mine 
was carried and on the first occasion ashore go to 
the Prefect to demand sanctuary, asking him to 
keep me under cover and to transmit my code 
number to Paris for further instructions. Should 
my mission not be accomplished before the Brit- 
ish squadron sailed, I was to remain with it until 
I had succeeded. At the first chance of escape I 
was to go to the nearest French official and em- 
ploy the same formula. 

The plan worked like a charm. I was caught 
in the raid, taken to the recruiting office after 
two days of military prison, and duly shoved 
into King George’s navy. The officer in charge 
did not try to veil his contempt for the slacker I 
was presumed to be and, in fact, showed me how 
ridiculous my contentions were by calling atten- 
tion to the fact that, although claiming to be an 
American, I had not attempted to communicate 
with the American Embassy during my two days 
of confinement and that the letters I had sent had 
been addressed to parties unknown to the French 
authorities and were now in his hands. He in- 
formed me that any attempt to evade the Ser- 
geant who was taking me in his detachment 
would be considered as desertion in the face of 
the enemy and the death penalty was the pun- 
ishment therefor. My civilian clothes were taken 
from me, I was given a sailor's uniform and kit 
and an hour later was entrained for Marseilles in 
a detachment of eight men. Four were sailors 
detached from other commands, two were young 
recruits and another was a slacker who had been 
caught in a raid like myself. I discovered by the 
comments that slackers were generally sent on 
dirty jobs like mine-laying. (The Chief must 
have known and depended on this when he con- 
ceived his plan.) 

The trip was not a pleasant one as two of us 
were in the party but not of it. Travelling in a 
third-class compartment with a crowd who hates 
your guts is nothing I would recommend. I was 
glad when we arrived and were taken out in a 
tender to the boats to which we were assigned. 
I was the only one of the eight taken aboard my 
particular tub and when I came aboard, the 
young Lieutenant who commanded her had me 
brought to his cabin. He told me that nobody 
but himself knew the cireumstances of my re- 
cruitment and that it depended entirely on my- 
self as to what treatment I should receive. A 
non-com was called who took me aft, assigned 
a bunk to me and turned me over to another who 
told me my duties. That night we sailed. 

During the next day and a half I polished more 
brass than I thought existed in an engine-room. 
A little after noon I was ordered to the Lieuten- 
ant's cabin and there was told that I was being 
transferred to the M.L. 982 where I was to report 
to the Squadron C. O. I got my few belongings 
together and when we ran alongside, was put 
aboard the squadron leader. I was taken to the 
cabin of the Commander, a very elegant gentle- 
man. 

Continued on page 103 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


SUGGESTED KIT 


FOR ANY DAY 


AT THE RACES 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


HIS is the way the experienced race- 

goer dresses, mindful of the fact that 
racing days come in all kinds of weather. 
Some of the new raincoats are made of 
substances so cannily contrived that you 
are put to it to determine, at any dis- 
tance over three feet away, whether they 
are topcoats that look like raincoats or 
raincoats that closely resemble topcoats. 
In any case, whether it be of rubber proc- 
essed to a nap-like finish or cloth that 
is weather-proofed, the coat that is built 
on the lines of the model sketched will 
look at home in any paddock. The one- 
piece topped plaid eap which survived, 
for a while, only as a shipboard acces- 
sory, has staged a comeback and is now 
not only tolerated but highly regarded 
as an item for general sports and country 
usage. Woolen reefers and string gloves 
or leather ones of the pull-on type com- 
prise, along with woolen socks and stout 


blucher shoes, the additional essentials. 
The horsey Long Island set has always 
been noted for a nice sense of clothes 
selection, combining the colorful with 
the eminently practical, and this turn- 
out is a typical one. With the reviving 
interest in horses, since increasing num- 
bers of people have taken up riding as 
a regular exercise, racing motifs have 
found a more prominent place in the 
realm of items designed for general sports- 
wear usage. This fashionable acceptance 
for things that smack of the turf has re- 
sulted in the present vogue for bit design 
jewelry, double ring belt fasteners and 
even the use of racing colors in such 
hitherto prosaic items as braces. These 
are of a new model with calfskin ends 
and the convenient clips attached which 
anchor one’s shirt in place. The over- 
size silk sports handkerchief features a 
choice of horse or hound as decoration. 


99 


HIS is the outfit for the country gen- 

tleman or the week-ending city 
dweller. In either case, the old English 
sheep dog, that symbol of rural aristoc- 
racy, will have no cause to feel ashamed 
of his companion. The briar pipe and 
the ash stick are as congenial to a eoun- 
try setting as the tang of autumn air and 
the rustle of dried leaves. The Lovat 
jacket has three buttons and expansion 
poekets; the buttons are of hand-eut 
stag horn or leather (the former are 
currently rated as being a bit more on 
the swank side) and the pockets are 
capacious enough to afford ample park- 
ing space for bulky objects such as the 
tobacco pouch and things like that. In 
this particular scheme of color and pat- 
tern, the best fabric bet would be shet- 
land for the jacket and tweed or heavy 
flannel for the trousers. The latter are 
not cuffed but are worn with natural 


100 


turn-up. Cuffs, indeed, seem to be оп 
the way out with natural turn-ups 
favored outside the city limits and cuff- 
less trousers getting the preference, at 
least among those who set the pace, in 
town. While a light shirt is indieated in 
the sketch, nothing feels better or looks 
better, with country clothes, than a 
fine soft shirt of Scotch woolen flannel 
in the true dark colorings that are now 
getting such a big play. These shirts 
have eome in with a bang, as handsome 
and appropriate concomitants of the 
wooly textures that are in high demand 
for men's suitings. A shetland pullover 
is especially desirable this season, for 
the same reason—the soft finish is in 
keeping with the soft rough cloths that 
dominate the eurrent trend. Helpful to 
the effect of studied nonchalance that 
characterizes these outfits is the over- 
sized sports handkerchief. 


KEYED TO COUNTRY 


LANES FROM SHOES 


TO CHECKERED CAP 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


IN THE BOIS 
Continued from page 53 


Nally dropped his umbrella and turned to her. 
“Dear Sheryl, don't you understand? I was afraid." 

“Ah—chivalry!” She smiled in the meaning way 
of women. 

*T don't mean that. When we broke up—when 
Ileft you...” 

Sheryl stood up, her eyes wide with fury. When 
you left me. Ilike that. My dear boy, I think that 
a little research will prove that J left you.” 
ly stood up also. He smiled wanly. “All 
right, then, ГЇЇ forgive you." 

Sheryl wheeled around and walked quickly away 
from him. She was sorry, now, that she had both- 
ered to recognize Nally. It would have been in- 
finitely more satisfying to have accepted the 
coincidence of seeing him and to have imagined 
what might have been said, rather than to have 
wittingly submitted herself to Nally's dullness. 
After all, she was married now. She had under- 
taken soberly all the attendant responsibilities and 
Nally was the last person in the world she wanted 
to see—at least, that she ought to see. 

As she thought of all these things, her pace 
quickened. The virulence of her mood was not the 
only element that prompted her acceleration; she 
heard the too-familiar sound of Nally's long strides 
overtaking her. Quite abruptly, her arms were 
caught and she was obliged to stop in her tracks. 
Nally turned her forcefully to him. 

“T love you," he said, simply. 

Sheryl's face expressed vividly her violent dis- 
pleasure. “How nice for you!" She tried to break 
away, but Nally had always been very strong—no 
reason for it, either; he was innately lazy and never 
exercised. 

He continued to look at her. He had such charm 
when he wanted to use it. 

Tt seemed to Sheryl that right now all that once 
had been the one and only Nally had returned. 
But she remained adamant. 

“Will you please let me go? I must get back to 
my hotel." 

“Why?” 

“Because I arrived only this morning and I must 
unpack—that is, if you don’t mind.“ 

Nally grinned. “Not at all. Don’t give it an- 
other thought.” 

Sheryl’s lips thinned. She thanked her heavens 
that no one was in sight; that this discussion was 
completely their own. “Scenes have always bored 
me," she said crisply. 

“Me, too." And then his voice lowered and his 
words were clipped. “Sheryl. Sheryl, dear. I love 

оц.” 

“So I understand.” 

Nally did not seem to hear her comment and 
went on, *You love me, too, don’t you? There’s 
never really been anyone but me—ever, has there? 
Every minute we were separated, you were thinking 
of me, weren't you? Every time you were in your 
—in Cross’ arms, you felt unfaithful to me, didn't 
you? You belong to me wholly, don't you?" 

“Of course!" said Sheryl, who, to hide the sud- 
den flood of tears that began to run down her 
cheeks, put her head on Nally's shoulder. 

Nally held her very close to him, so that she 
might feel his heart thumping away madly. He 
wanted to say something like “Му darling!" But 
he smothered the temptation as being too banal. 
'That was one thing about their relationship—it 
had never been banal. 

With a quiet sniff, Sheryl raised her head. Her 
chin wiggled a little bit, and a faint touch of wet 
mascara on her lashes made her squint her eyes. 
“Nally,” she said. 

Jes, dear." 

“You're gloating, aren't you?" 

“Yes, dear." 

“God, you're a beast." She put her face once 
more on his shoulder. 

And once more Nally agreed. 

After a few more stifled sobs had iped her, 
she turned sideways to Nally, who took care that 
one arm remained around her shoulders. He tilted 
her chin upward, and after his eyes had gorged 
themselves on her face, he kissed her. 

Sheryl felt that she and Nally had been fused 
into one distinct entity for that brief moment. 

“Tt’s raining!" Sheryl spoke through their kiss. 

“Damn!” And Nally opened his umbrella. He 
wanted to giggle or scream or cry. He could not 
make up his mind which to do, so he took Sheryl 
by the arm and hurried along. 

“Where are you going?" she asked. 
> you home, if you like." 

“Yes, I would like. I haven't even unpacked— 
oh, I told you that." 

“That’s all right. Where are you staying?” 

'The rain started to come down heavily, and 
Sheryl clung closer to Nally. 

“Гуе found the cutest little ‘pension’ hotel near 
the Etoile.” 

“We'll get a taxi.” 

But, as fortune would have it, there was no taxi 

Continued on page 104 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


SINCE 1848, SKINNER’S SILK 
LININGS HAVE ENRICHED 
THE GARMENTS OF UP-TO- 
THE-MINUTE AMERICANS. 


us “LOOK FOR THE NAME IN THE SELVAGE" 


Wë ро OUR PART 


William Skinner & Sons, New York * Established 1848 


SKINNERS 


LININGS 


101 


— 


LITHOGRAPH BY JOHN GROTH 


Eviction 


102 ESQ UIRE— Autumn, 1933 


I WAS, I AM. A SPY 
Continued from page 98 

He was sitting at his desk and swung round in 
his chair when his orderly, with me in tow, rapped 
on the open door. He asked me in, dismissed the 
orderly with the request that he close the door 
after him and then asked me to sit down. I, as an 
ordinary seaman, remained standing and was again 
told to sit down. When I said something about 
regulations, he laughed and said, “Very well then, 
I order you to sit down. Take a cigarette and listen 
carefully while I read you this report. It leaves me 
in a quandary. Га like to drop you overside and 
let you try to swim ashore but I have other orders.“ 

He adjusted his monocle, lit a cigarette after 
offering me a light for one I had taken, and read me 
the following: *Larey Howard, alias Howard Law- 
ton, alias Ludwig Haenel, alias Jean Finot, alias 
Captain X, is with your squadron as Roger Ben- 
nett. Born February 17, 1889 at 370 East 51st St., 
New York City, French-American parentage. Edu- 
cated in Ohio. Engaged in commercial pursuits 
until 1915 in the U. S. Recorded that from the 
outbreak of hostilities in 1914, he was often present 
in cities where violations of American neutrality 
occurred which resulted in arrest and deportation 
of German agents. Possibly an agent-provocateur, 
possibly counter-espionage. Secured position as 
European correspondent of XYZ Daily Record, 
works on space rate. Left New York on 8.8. 
Chicago, July 2, 1915, became friendly ab ard with 
Sigrid Olesen, Swedish mistress of well-known New 
Yorker. Remained in Hotel Bordeaux several days 
with her. Lived for several weeks in her Paris 
apartment with her. Shortly thereafter she was 
deported to the U. S. Frequented Montparnasse 
thereafter going on occasional trips to the British 
and French fronts usually to sectors where defeat- 
ism was rumored. His visits were marked by sub- 
sequent transfers of men to other regiments, courts- 
martial leading to executions and the like. Has 
made several visits to Germany via England and 
Holland. He is persona grata to the Central Pow- 
ers as his despatches to his paper usually favor 
Germany. In London and Paris has on numerous 
occasions been present at cafe and restaurant 
brawls at which killings have taken place. Upon 
examination no weapon has ever been found upon 
him. Victims of brawls have invariably been under 
surveillance of Allied authorities. He has struck up 
intimacies with numerous foreigners who have 
shortly thereafter dropped from sight. He is appar- 
ently a killer whose tracks are covered by others. 
Has considerable funds at his disposal which сап- 
not be accounted for by his personal means or by 
his journalistie earnings. He is obviously in the 
Espionage Service of some power, probably France, 
as he works most often with them. He has ren- 
dered invaluable service to His Majesty's Govern- 
ment, to Belgium, to France, and to Russia. He has 
secretly been decorated by the three latter powers. 
Although known as Captain X, he has been dec- 
orated by the Imperial Russian Government with 
an order never bestowed below the rank of Colonel. 
Has on several occasions given valuable informa- 
tion to the greatest neutral power. He may be in 
its Secret Service. He is to be extended every cour- 
tesy by you. You are to return him to Marseilles 
where further transportation will be provided. No 
harm must come to him while with your Command." 

Dropping his monocle from his eye, he smilingly 
said, *Now, my dear chap, what have you to say to 
that? You see our Intelligence is not so dusty." 

I answered, “АП I have to say is that your people 
don't seem to know their own minds. When I told 
them that I was Howard, they insisted that I was 
Bennett and that Howard was in Morocco. Now 
that I admit being Bennett, you say Lam Howard.” 

His rejoinder was, *Well I don't care а damn 
whether you're the Kaiser himself. I think you're 
in a filthy job and I still think it would be a bloody 
good day's work to drop you overside. But as I 
admire your guts, I'm having you mess with me 
this evening and after dinner back you go to Mar- 
seilles on the 1402. By the way, you might tell me 
how you perform your executions and are then 
found without weapons. That's a likely thing to 
know. It might be of use to me some day." 

I grinned at him and answered, “Му dear Com- 
mander, granting that all this report is true, which 
І do not concede, wouldn't it be rather indiscreet 
of me to tell you more than you already know? 
Suppose you put your Intelligence to work on that.“ 

The youngster who commanded 1402, whose 
cabin I shared and with whom I messed on the 
return voyage, was patently puzzled as to what it 
was all about but asked no questions and I volun- 
teered no information. He personally escorted me 
to the R. T. O. and got me a first-class compart- 
ment to Paris and saw me aboard the train. The 
agent who was set to watch me was laughable, he 
was so obvious. I made no attempt to evade him 
as there was always the chance that if I did he 
might pot-shot me as a deserter. 

Upon arriving in Paris I taxied immediately to a 
house on the rue Blondel, (the logical place for a 
sailor to go, although I didn't go for the logical 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


reason.) Before my shadow could gain admittance, 
Madame having told him that the house was full 
Шр and that he would have to wait until a client left, 
I had telephoned for instructions. I was told to go 
openly to Bennett's room in about an hour. 

I found Pierre there and he removed the stain 
from my body. He gave me a uniform to put on 
and to my amazement I saw it to be that of a fire- 
man. When I was dressed he took my sailor clothes 
and all my other gear and soaked them with petrol. 
Isaw that everything of value had been removed 
from the room during my absence. On my asking 
what it was all about, he cooly replied, “I’m going 
to set this place afire. Monsieur Bennett and his 
belongings are to be cremated. The newspapers 
tomorrow will carry an account of the fire and the 
finding of a charred body, presumably Bennett.“ 

When I expostulated that he was endangering 
the rest of the tenants, he replied, “Т'уе had my 
orders from the Chief and now I'll give you yours. 
Now that you are ready, I shall give the alarm 
after setting a match to this. By the time the fire- 
men get here, it will be just right for them to ex- 
tinguish. In the confusion you will board the fire- 
engine I indicate. At the firehouse you will find 
your newspaper correspondent's uniform and a fast 
car will take you out to a way-station of the 
P. L. M. in time to get the express into Paris іп the 
morning. Money and all necessary papers are in 
your uniform. You will breakfast and then go to 
your office. You will find an invitation to visit the 
Verdun sector. You willleave at noon with a party 
of correspondents. The party will be in charge of а 
Captain Blanquet of the Etat Major. In the party 
will be a correspondent of a Buenos Aires news- 
paper named Vallejo. He is being subsidized by 
the Boches. Eliminate him. Let's hope for better 
luck with this mission." 

To my question, But when do I see the Chief?“ 
he answered with а grin, Never fear, you shall see 
him. He will be Captain Blanquet.” 

And then, he lit a match. 


CONFESSIONS OF A GHOST 
Continued from page 67 

state of cerebration, for tons of humor are required 
to keep up а weekly act. Eddie Cantor, Jack 
Pearl, Ed Wynn, Bert Lahr, Harry Richman, 
George Jessel—they are all haunted, and by some 
of the most successful apparitions in the business. 
Among the leading gag men are Al Boasberg, Dave 
Freedman, and William K. Welles, who composes 
the Baron Munchausen foolery. These men and 
their colleagues are Broadway boys with stony 
eyes and memories like elephants. 'They need the 
memories for protection against gag thieves who 
listen in with more than idle attention when the 
big guns of humor thunder over the airways. 

Here it should be mentioned that there is a 
shining exception to the ghost writing rule, in the 
person of Fred Allen, who writes all his own 
material. But then, he used to be a librarian, and 
can still read à newspaper without moving his 
lips, which makes him, in his profession, not so 
much an exception as a prodigy. 

Recently I had the pleasure of assisting at a 
gag conference for one of the top flight comedians. 
The room seemed to be full of cigar smoke and 
men named Lou or Al. The comic, an earnest 
little fellow, was pacing up and down. 

“T got a public,” he was wailing, “а public and 
you ask me such a thing!" 

The humorists had suggested that their em- 
ployer obtain a laugh by making the unpleasant 
abial sound known as the Bronx Cheer. 

“Lou,” he groaned, “I can’t do it! I got a 
public!“ 

Lou, Al & Co. chewed their cigars to the ulti- 
mate half inch. It was like Black Friday in the 
panie of 1907, with J. P. Morgan deciding whether 
or not to let the country go to perdition. Then 
came the true, the heaven-sent afflatus, welcome 
as а dove with olive branches. 

“T got it!" cried Al, “I got it! He bends over, 
see? Way over, see? And then the drummer, he 
tears a pieca cloth, see? R-r-rip! Like he tore his 
pants, see?" 

Success! 

The willing ghosts forthwith attacked the prob- 
lem of visualizing this gag for the edification of 
the comedian's public. As I lett the room, they 
were waving their cigars as though to signal thc 
go-ahead to a train of inspiration that would 

rostrate the country in one Gargantuan belly- 

Gack: Make no mistake: these Broadway gagsters 
know their business, and they have also been 
clever enough to master the technique of the 
microphone. 

And there is a technique, though not a difficult 
one. It is a matter of ear. The vaudeville men, 
dealers in the spoken word, have sensed this 
important fact. But a writer who is exclusively 
eye-minded, as I believe many magazine authors 
are, will find radio a puzzling and elusive medium. 

That’s where the ghost comes in. At first, of 
course, he isn’t a ghost at all; his connection with 
the author’s series of dramatic scripts is purely 


advisory. But after a week or so, the advisor’s 
role becomes dimmer and dimmer; the edges begin 
to waver and blend. And another collaborator has 
turned literary spook. 

Then we have the spectacle of highly paid, 
three-name authors, who belong to the Dutch 
Treat Club and carry gold fountain pens, collect- 
ing enormous fees for work which is really done 
by obscure but competent radio hacks. The 
author has sold his name. The ghost supplies the 
rest: plot, character, skill in dialogue, feeling for 
the dramatic scene. Most fictioneers do not 
ordinarily find either cash or glory on the visible 
stage. The field of the legitimate dramatist is one 
which they do not ordinarily attempt to cultivate. 

But radio with its plentiful ghosts is a happy 
hunting ground for an author with a front and a 
list of magazine successes. There is something 
about such men that impresses prospective spon- 
sors of radio entertainments. The question of the 
author’s fitness to produce spoken dialogue is 
never considered for an instant. The sponsor’s 
notion is, you can always find somebody to do 
the writing. 

And then, there are the radio actors who claim 
the authorship of the sketches in which they 
appear. One thinks of Philipps Lord who as the 
pious Seth Parker sells hymn books to his Sunday 
night public. On the other hand, Raymond 
Knight of *Ku-Ku" and ‘Wheatenaville” fame 
writes every line and word that is heard in his 
sketches. Neither of these gentlemen would pre- 
sent quite the curious problem in ethies which is 
found in the case of the widely published author, 
of established reputation, who augments that 
reputation over the air with drama and dialogue 
bought in the ghostly markets. 

Not since the days of Dickens have serial 
writers turned out such quantities of material as 
does the radio author of this year 1933. If his 
story is heard every day, he writes in a week more 
than the number of words in a novel of standard 
length. No wonder the big names of the nickel 
weeklies prefer to farm this gruelling labor out. 
Keep a radio show going, and you haven't muen 
time left for the higher aspects of life as represented 
by golf, ping-pong, and lunching with editors. 

So miracles of mass production must be per- 
formed by the ghostly playwrights of radio. At 
one time I was writing a daily fifteen minute 
program—signed by a famous name—and two 
half-hour weekly scripts in addition. This repre- 
sents considerably more dialogue than is found in 
a three act play. To continue production at this 
rate week after week induces a state of mind 
which I imagine is rather like that of an opium 
addict. People seem to float rather than move 
and all the voices you hear come from a great 
distance. 

Nevertheless, the radio ghost takes on his job 
of haunting with his eyes open. Certainly he 
doesn't have to do it. And he may be cheered in 
his anonymous labor by the hope that some day 
he will work in his own right and under his own 
name—ghost for himself, so to speak. That day, 
of course, will never come. A ghost would not be a 
ghost if he were not endowed with the devious, 
sardonic, pessimistie turn of mind which enables 
him to accept an arrangement whereby the work 
of his brain 1s used to glorify another person. No 
amount of money could really justify such a trans- 
action. The ghost knows in his heart that when he 
accepts his wages he has sold something he can 
never buy back—his own integrity. The only un- 
credited collaborator whose doings were ethically 
defensible was Cyrano, who stood in the shadow 
and whispered to Chretien the golden phrases 
which were Roxane's delight. The reward of 
Cyrano was that he loved them both. But for my 
part, I fear that I could not say I have affection 
for any of the authors I have boosted to meretri- 
cious fame, nor do I admire the audience that 
applauds them. 

What I have written here, however, is not set 
down in bitterness. My “collaborators” often in- 
vite me to a Barmecide’s feast of flattery and 
pretended admiration. This is amusing. Often 
they amuse me further by their calm acceptance 
of well-meant praise for work they signed but did 
not write. 

I recollect the case of one man for whom I did 
a series of radio plays replete with terse dialogue 
and smashing situation. I feel sure this man 
would be hard put to it to write an ordinary 
business letter, a really well-phrased letter, I 
mean. But he was not deterred by any sense of 
his own shortcomings. Soon he was giving oracu- 
lar interviews on how to write for radio. Then came 
the day when I saw in a journal a section of 
dialogue from one of the scripts I had written, 
accompanied by an article in which the expert 
pointed out how “Мз” work had brought a new 
vitality to the art of impregnating the air with 
drama. And the editor added that this man was 
“undoubtedly the most gifted of the dialogue 
writers.“ 

That's success —as it comes to a ghost! 


103 


Seehausen 


DWIGHT FISKE 


COMING DEC. 1 


in the second issue of 


ESQUIRE 


THE DWIGHT FISKE ALBUM —The idol of the so- 
phisticates of New York, Chicago, Paris, Berlin 
and London, at last tells all. You may have read 
his songs, but until you see him doing them you 
just don't know the half of it. And by an innova- 
tion of publishing practice you will seehim doing 
one of his newest and liveliest, from beginning 
to end. Don't ask us how—wait'll you see! In- 
cidentally, he will tell you what the Queen of 
Spain said, and what a mouthful that was. 


. 
HEMINGWAY IN SPAIN— This issue will contain 
the second of the series of letters Ernest Heming- 
way is doing for ESQUIRE. Illustrations by 
John Dos Passos. 


б 
THOMAS BURKE — The Watcher, а haunting story 
of Limehouse, by the man who made it famous. 


б 
PAUL MORAND—Around the World at the Cocktail 
Hour, a grand tour of the world's most famous 
bars, featuring the best drink served at each of 
them, by the celebrated French author who isa 
citizen of the world. 


. 
BARNEY ROSS— That part of the new lightweight 
champion's story which has never been told on 
the sports pages. 


. 
HENRI DUVERNOIS — The Toys, a Christmas story 
with an unusual twist, by one of the outstanding 
young writers of France. 


. 
ALBERT HALPER — Hot Night in Rockford a quiet 
girl alone and lonely, a slick salesman on the 
loose, carnival-time in a small town—a great 
story. 


. 
JOHN RAMSEY — Partly Cloudy to Cloudy —a tale 
for duck-hunting time, by a young author never 
before published. 


. 
DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS, JR.—Yokel, Yokel, Little 
Star —an article in which one of the very few 
male movie stars who are well dressed tells why 
most of them aren't. 


. 
SAM HELLMAN—Subject unannounced, title un- 
announced, but how could it help but be funny? 


. 
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE—The Bridge Racket—being 
the real low-down on how the contract experts 
get that way. 


. 
GEOFFREY KERR— Portrait of a Butler— which is 
very funny—and therefore indescribable. 


E 
ROBERT BUCKNER—Little Augie and the Davis Cup, 
by the ebullient Buckner, who seems destined to 
become the Balzac of our alley. 


Of course, these are only a few of the 

many features in the next issue of Esquire. 

But now is the time to assure yourself 

of obtaining a copy of every issue. And 

the only way to do that is to subscribe. 
It's $1.50 by the year. 


ESQUIRE 


THE QUARTERLY FOR MEN 


104 


THERE'S NO REPEALING TASTES 
Continued from page 47 

takes place in the year 1907 in the halcyon days of 
the Franco-British bliss. A famous French Gen- 
eral—possibly Joffre—gives an elaborate dinner in 
honor of his country's powerful ally. On His 
Majesty's right and left are seated the two best 
looking women of Europe. In front of him and 
around him are laid out some of the dustiest bottles 
in France. The King chats and drinks. Chats bril- 
liantly and drinks liberally though somewhat per- 
functorily, swallowing in one gulp whatever is 
poured in his glass. The General gets redder and 
redder: not from liquor but from indignation. “To 
think,” he whispers to his neighbor, the Prime 
Minister of France, “that I should have wasted my 
time on unearthing all this fine stuff from private 
cellars. The man is a boor and an ignoramus.” 
“Tsss . . . says the Prime Minister. “Tsss . . . my 
eye,” replies the General. The coffee is being served 
by now. An eighty-two year old gentleman, wear- 
ing a white canvas coat and corduroy trousers, 
enters the room with an uncertain gait, holding a 
bottle close to his heart. I should have said “the” 
bottle, for what the rosy-cheeked patriarch holds 
in his veined hands happens to be one of the very 
few genuine samples of Cognac-Napoleon to be 
found in France or anywhere else under the moon. 
At a sign from the General, His Majesty's glass— 
sufficiently big to accommodate the head of John 
the Baptist—is filled two inches high with the 
brownish, smooth smooth as butter substance. 
Here's to the ladies," offers the King and swallows 
his Cognac in one gulp. “Jesus and Mary,” roars 
out the General in a voice that is heard two floors 
below and before he can be stopped by the Prime 
Minister he shakes his fist at the King. “What have 
I done?” gasps Edward.“ What haven't you done?“ 
replies the General. “I’ve stood this barbarism long 
enough. I am at the end of my patience. It was 
bad enough to watch you swallow your Chateau- 
Laffitte as if it were so much dishwater but when 
it comes to Cognac-Napoleon . . . Oh, no, oh, no... 
A thousand times no and then some." His Majesty 
is bewildered, ashamed and a bit amused. “How 
does one go about. drinking Cognac-Napoleon?” 
he queries with a wink at his neighbors. “I'll show 


fully." He takes his glass in both hands, rz 
to the level of his nose, begins to roll it slowly г 
then—after two minutes of rolling—breathes deeply 
of the faint aroma. “The ethery smell so peculi 
to all brandies, even the oldest of them, is practi- 
cally gone now,“ he explains to the King. “Another 
five minutes or so and I shall moisten my lips with 
this noble liquid." “Апа what does one do then?” 
asks the King guardedly. Does one drink it?" 
“Опе talks about it," replies the General wryly. 

— All of this goes to prove that when Der Tag” 
arrives and at a sign from Secretary Hull the 
heavily laden boats push their у from Sandy 
Hook into the Hudson River, there will be hue and 
cry throughout this gorgeous land for the most un- 
pronounceable wines, brandies, and liqueurs. And 
then—some six weeks later—having satisfied their 
yen for the exotic and unspellable, the boys and 
girls will walk through the, by then, wide open 
doors of Tony's and say in voices choking with ill- 
disguised emotion: 

“Make mine a double old-fashioned.” 

And thus it will remain for generations to come, 
until another Andrew Volstead raises his head out 
of the tall wheat fields of the manly State of Minne- 
sota and proves to the satisfaction of his contem- 
poraries that the Golden Age of their beloved 
vaterland coincided with those happy bygone 
years when that sterling American, Alphonse Ca- 
pone, Esq., was keeping the fires of rugged individ- 
ualism burning in the Hotel Lexington in Chicago. 


IN THE BOIS 

Continued from page 101 

in sight, so Sheryl and Nally walked and walked 
until they were very near Longchamps. Talk 
seemed superfluous; at least, until they found the 
taxi, so they amused themselves with harmonizing 
on several choruses of Singing in the Rain.” 

But such things cannot go on forever, and even- 
tually a taxi weaved into view. Nally hailed it and 
in anaemie French repeated the address Sheryl 
had given him. 

They had not ridden in it five minutes when the 
rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. 

Sheryl took Nally’s hand. What are you doing 
tonight?" she asked. 

* Driving down to Biarritz 

“Alone?” Sheryl looked serious. 

“Naturally.” 

“Cad!” She dropped his hand. 

“T am—really.” 

“Then you’ve changed.” 

“T have indeed.” 

Sheryl was looking out the window. “I’m rather 
sorry you have.” 

“Why?” 

“Never mind.” 

Nally was completely perplexed, but beginning 


to enjoy the situation. Have you—er—deserted 
your husband?” he asked. 

Sheryl still surveyed the passing panorama. 
“More or less," she answered. “I told him about 
us. I was beastly.” 

“Beastly!” repeated Nally, grinning broadly. 

“I felt so horribly ashamed. It seemed to crush 
him so when I told him, that I thought it would be 
unfair to live with him any longer. Therefore, I 
packed up and came over here.” 

"You were always so brave, so sportsmanlike, in 
those matters.“ 

“T called you this morning at your old number. 
There was no answer. I had nothing to do and no 
place to go, so I went for a walk." 

Nally took her hand once more. “Sheryl, are 
you going out tonight?” 

“І can’t. It’s too late. My luggage hasn't been 
touched and everything I have to wear is in it.” 

The sun slipped its last golden red glows of the 
day through the Аге de Triomphe as the cab made 
the necessary sweep around it. 

"Im almost home now. Call me before you 
leave with—well, call me anyway, won't you?" 

Won't you come?” 

“Tf I weren't civilized, I'd be insulted.” 

“Му dear—” 

“Goodbye, Nally. It was so nice to have seen 
you, and do have a good time." 

Although he knew by her tone that her senti- 
ments were anything but sincere, he mumbled some- 
thing pertaining to luggage as the taxi stopped by 
the little **pension" hotel near the Etoile on the 
Rue Balzac. 

Early the next morning, a little inn on the road 
to Biarritz served a charming breakfast to a charm- 
ing couple. 

The innkeeper knew that they were foreigners, 
and guessed that they were Americans. 


POOR MAN’S NIGHT CLUB 
Continued from page 61 

fall would mean his elimination from the contest. 
Thus a sprint means a certain number of hours— 
seldom fewer than three or more than six—with 
fewer than three falls. Later on in the contest a 
two-fall rule is in effect. 

An elimination sprint is the same as the time 
sprint, except that its duration is not fixed in 
advance. It continues until one contestant is 
eliminated by taking a third (or, under the two-fall 
rule, a second) fall. 

A grind differs from a sprint in that the floor 
attendants are not allowed to help the contestants, 
in any way, except after a fall. In the nt, a 
contestant feeling drowsy can ask the nu ora 
trainer for help, but not in the grind. In the grind, 
the couples are usually chained or taped together 
in dancing position. 

A grind, like a sprint, can be set for a certain 
interval of time, or for an indeterminate period, to 
end only with the elimination of a contestant. 


So much for the rules. They may, and do, vary 
greatly. Walkathons may be held in theatres, 
auditoriums or dance halls, armories or pavilions or 
even tents, and the rules are shaped by exigencies 
imposed by the nature of the place, as well as by 
the showmanship of those in charge of the contest. 
But they must be open to the publie all around 
the clock. 'This is the one characteristic common to 
all of them—they are open twenty-four hours a 
day. For how else to allay the suspicion that is 
harbored, if not voiced, by the majority of patrons, 
that the thing ain't on the square? 

But if, to the spectator, а Walkathon may be 
called the poor man's night club, then to the con- 
testant it can be dubbed by no more accurate title 
than The Innocent’s Jail. For where else, except 
in jail, must you be under the eyes of your fellow- 
men for every waking moment, over periods rang- 
ing from one month to six, unable to escape for a 
moment, going through a jitter-giving monotony 
of routine every moment you are awake, and hud- 
dled in a common barrack, with no more approach 
to privacy than that afforded by the mere segrega- 
tion of the sexes, for the moments you are asleep— 
and they are only moments—and get not one single 
dime in pay for your pains? The army is the life of 
Reilly compared to this, for soldiers get pay, they 
get their leave, with its concomitant chances for 
emotional outlet. The weary cast of a Walkathon 
gets neither. 

If it is hard to see why people should want to 
watch a Walkathon, then it is harder still to under- 
stand why people should want to enter one, as con- 
testants. The contestants, or to refer to them by 
the only name the Masters of Ceremonies ever 
call them, the Kiddies, are of two types. There are 
the professionals—kids who go, for want of any 
better way to find food at least and shelter of a 
hard-won sort, from town to town where Walka- 
thons are held, frequently going by the hitch-hike 
route. Many of these young veterans, still in their 
early twenties (averaging, in fact, about 21 years) 

Continued on page 107 


ESQ UIRE—Autumn, 1933 


CORRECT RIDING 


HABIT FOR PARK 


OR COUNTRY USE 


ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


F your association with horses is more 
than occasional, this version of a rid- 
ing kit should interest you. It is a hack- 
ing kit that will serve for either country 
or park riding. The breeches have a 
"whip" to the looseness from knee to 
waist but they are tight in the calf after 
the true British cavalry pattern. The 
jacket must be cut carefully, along the 
lines of the one that is sketched here, or 
a botch will result that may be regarded 
as equal insult to the horse and disgrace 
to the rider. The skirts should be of 
ample length and flare to set well over 
the hips and sufficient cloth should be 
cut into the back and front of the jacket 
to preserve the wearer, when seated in 
the saddle, from the least hint of resem- 
blance to the proverbial toad on a log. 
A Tattersall waistcoat helps give the 
outfit tone by relieving the severity of 
the plain browns and tans and is, of 


course, the last word in correctness. The 
eyelet-pinned round collar attached shirt 
of light weight broadcloth is suitable for 
general sports and negligee wear, but is 
especially good with this riding kit be- 
cause this style of collar affords a trim, 
almost military, note of neatness that 
adds a lot to the effect of the outfit as a 
whole. A suede jacket is a welcome ad- 
dition when the weather turns cold, but 
a newer idea is the short knitted woolen 
jacket—much like the old time Macki- 
naw in texture—made over the same 
model that has previously been made up 
only in leather. It closes, like most of 
the newer leather jackets, with a slide 
fastener, and its raglan shoulders assure 
the wearer that there will be no binding 
across the back in active sports wear. 
Six and three rib hose in horizontal stripe 
patterns have been noted frequently at 
the Eastern sports events. 


105 


ati. ge 


teen Gear or 


MONOTYPE BY JOHN GROTH 


“Сее, kin ANYbody get in?” 


106 ESQUIRE — Autumn, 1933 


BACK HOME IN 1919 
Continued from page 10 

Charley looked up in Major Taylor's grey face sag- 
ging in the pale glare of the fog through the smok- 
ing room windows and noticed the white streaks 
in his hair and moustache; Gosh, he thought to 
himself, I'm going to quit this drinking. 

They got through lunch somehow, then scattered 
to their cabins to sleep. In the corridor outside his 
cabin, Charley met Mrs. Johnson.“ Well, the first 
ten days'll be the hardest, Mrs. Johnson." 

“Why don’t you call me Eveline, everybody else 
does?" Charley turned red. 

„What's the use? We won't ever see each other 
again." 

“Why not?" He looked into her long hazel eyes; 
the pupils widened till the hazel was all black. 

“Jesus I'd like it if we could," he stammered. 
“Don’t think for a minute I...” 

She'd already brushed silkily past him and was 
gone down the corridor. He went into his cabin 
and slammed the door. His bags were packed. The 
steward had put away the bedclothes. Charley 
threw himself face down on the striped musty 
smelling ticking of the mattress. “God damn that 
woman," he said aloud. 

'The rattle of a steamwinch woke him, then he 
heard the jingle of the engine room bell. He looked 
out the porthole and saw a yellow and white reve- 
nue cutter and, beyond, vague pink sunlight on 
frame houses. The fog was lifting; they were in the 
Narrows. By the time he'd splashed the aching 
sleep out of his eyes and run up on deck, the Niag- 
ara was nosing her way slowly across the green grey 
glinting bay. The ruddy fog was looped up like 
curtains overhead. A red ferry boat crossed their 
bow. To the right there was a line of four and five 
masted schooners at anchor, beyond them a square 
rigger and a huddle of squatty Shipping Board 
steamers, some of them still striped and mottled 
with camouflage. Then dead ahead, the up-and- 
down gleam in the blur of the tall buildings of 
New York. 

Joe Askew came up to him with his trench coat 

Continued on page 115 


POOR MAN'S NIGHT CLUB 


Continued from page 104 

have been in thirteen or fourteen of these shows. 
They get no pay —in fact the word professional is a 
misnomer, being used, as it shouldn't be, simply 
to designate those who have been in a number of 
these contests. Their only income, for their “work- 
ing" periods, i. e., for as long as they can last in 
the contest that happens to be current, is derived 
from the sale of popcorn and their own auto- 
graphed photographs, plus whatever they can en- 
tice, in the way of а shower of coins from the 
audience, by their always inept and usually ludi- 
crous efforts to put on individual entertainment, 
either in song, and oh how sour, or by stunts. 
Pennies and nickels are most numerous in these 
impromptu offertories. Sometimes dimes. Seldom 
quarters. But people do, now and then, send up a 
dollar bill to the M. C's. platform, with the request 
that this or that favored contestant do a certain 
desired song or stunt. 

The other kind of contestant is the Walkathon- 
struck amateur. Yes, one can become Walkathon- 
struck, just as one can become stage-struck, with 
the important difference that it is difficult to 
satisfy the latter urge, when the first virus strikes, 
other than by such sublimation as pestering the 
stars for their autographed pictures. But, in the 
case of the Walkathon, one can step right into the 
class of giver—yes, better still, of seller—of auto- 
graphed photographs, without so much as a day’s 
training or apprenticeship. The movies and the 
stage are difficult to crash, even for those possessed 
of admittedly recognizable talent. But the Walka- 
thons are wide open to any lunk with two sound 
legs, a normal heart and pulse, and a sufficiently 
unimaginative turn of mind to be able to con- 
template, without fear of incipient idiocy, the 
prospect. of exposing oneself, like an animal in a 
cage, to the twenty-four houra day gaze of the public. 


A Walkathon usually starts with a want-ad that 
runs every day for several weeks before the sched- 
uled opening of the contest. This ad invites all 
would-be contestants to make application and to 
submit to physical examination. Its wording is 
most restrained and conservative; it holds out no 
high hopes of fame and fortune for those who qual- 
ify as contestants. It simply says, “Here it is, 
come and get it, all those who want a chance to 
compete in a Walkathon.” And it offers nothing— 
nothing but a chance to walk your legs off, for no 
particular purpose and for no direct remuneration. 

But to those who are Walkathon-struck, who 
have seen Walkathons and envied the easy celeb- 
rity achieved by contestants obviously possessed 
of no talent of any kind, the words have a magical 
ring. For this is the short-cut to stardom, of a 
short-lived but very exciting sort. 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


The boy who couldn’t hit a ball past infield on 
any sandlot baseball team, who couldn’t catch a 
pass twice in a thousand tries, can enter a Walka- 
thon with as good a chance as anyone’s to win, and 
can hear the constant shrieking plaudits of a 
passionately partisan crowd for hours at a time, 
cheering him on with gratifyingly intimate and 
endearing terms of encouragement. The girl who 
has been a wallflower all her life, and would be any- 
where, were she to move among the Hottentots, 
can get the attention, every night, that was Cin- 
derella’s at the ball, simply by joining a Walka- 
thon. She can also get varicose veins and fallen 
arches, if she is unlucky, but those are not the 
things that are thought of beforehand. 

Anyway, the starting field in any Walkathon is 
sure to be at least fifty per cent amateur. The 
majority of the amateurs will drop out the first 
month, but one or two will go through to the con- 
test’s final stages. In fact, more often than not, 
one member of the winning couple is an amateur. 
And, also more often than not, that winner turns 
professional—in other words, begins joining up in 
other Walkathons, one after another, here, there 
and everywhere, and never wins again. The other 
half—the professional half, in the starting field— 
in almost every Walkathon, will be found, upon 
investigation, to be composed almost entirely of 
one-time Walkathon winners from somewhere. 

When they enter, they get a thoroughgoing 
physical examination. And throughout the contest, 
nurses and a doctor are in constant attendance. 
The kids are fed seven times a day—standing up 
to every meal, because a contestant may never sit 
down, except during the rest periods. When the 
contest moves, as they often do, after the shakeout 
of the first weeks is over, and the crowds begin to 
grow, then the contestants walk to the new quar- 
ters or, if the distance is prohibitive, they go in 
trucks, standing up like cattle. 

A daily shower is compulsory, and comes at the 
zero hour, some time between five-thirty and seven 
in the morning, when the attendance is as light as 
it ever gets, being comprised, at that hour, of those 
who, if they have homes, seem to have forgotten 
them. The boys leave the floor for the shower at 
one time, the girls at another, so the floor is not 
deserted. 


The crowd is rabidly partisan and volatile in its 
expression of excitement, fear, enthusiasm and 
anger. Nurses have been booed off the floor—and 
out of their jobs—by portions of the crowd who 
resented some fancied partiality in the treatment 
ot contestants. 

The contestants, in marked contrast to the 
crowd, show an amazing lack of competitive spirit. 
Instances of this are in constant evidence, from 
beginning to the bitter end, in every Walkathon. 
In the longest Walkathon on record, which was 
ended, in a tie between two couples, well beyond 
four thousand hours (over six months), the two 
couples deadlocked at the end were still helping 
each other through the final grind with which the 
contest ended. 

Grinds have lasted over seven days. Remember, 
a grind means no sleep and no help from trainers 
or floor judges, yet after seven days, or 168 hours, 
without sleep, contestants have been seen helping 
their opponents, and thus, by prolonging the grind, 
prolonging their own agony. 

The grind is an amazing thing anyway, at any 
time and under any circumstances. The thing that 
gets you is the slow tempo of the whole thing, the 
dragging slow swish swish and clup clup of all these 
leaden feet and the contrast it affords to the hys- 
terical crescendo of the crowd’s shouts and screams, 
strident as a sudden siren in a downtown street. 

Every moment after the second hour ina grindis 
like those moments in a prizefight film when the 
rare bits of dramatic action are run through in slow 
motion. The contestants go into their falls with a 
dream-like slow sinking They do not fall as a 
fighter falls, suddenly keeling. Instead, they seem 
to melt down to the floor. And often, at a point 
where another fall means the elimination of the 
first one to take it, as many as eight or nine con- 
testants will be slowly sinking to the floor. To 
guess which one will take the fall first, and thus 
end the grind, is like guessing which of the gutter- 
ing candles will be the first to go out, in an eight 
branched candelabra. 

Of course, there is shrewd showmanship on the 
part of some of the contestants, as well as con- 
sistent good showmanship by the promoters of the 
contest. The colorful couple, the one that gets the 
sympathy and affection of the crowd, and the 
lion's share of its attention, is the one that is al- 
ways in difficulty. So some of the smarter of the 
professionals, with an eye to increasing the take 
when coins are showered onto the floor during the 
performance of a stunt or song, contrive always to 
bein danger—early and prolonged danger—during 
every sprint or grind. You will see them take two 
falls within the first hour of a four-hour sprint or 
grind, night after night, keeping the crowd’s atten- 


Continued on page 113 


The higher the forehead the fewer the 
hairs ... and the nearer you are to bald- 
ness. Take care, brother, while there is 
still time, and sparea few minutes a week 
for the proper care of your scalp. Before 
every shampoo give it a thorough 
"Vaseline' Hair Tonic workout. Apply the 
Tonic generously to the scalp, and 
massage with a rotary motion until 
the head tingles, and the scalp feels 
loose. These treatments, given regu- 
larly, will keep the scalp in the pink of 
condition, the circulation stimulated, the 
hair vigorous, and abundant. Your drug- 
gist sells ‘Vaseline’ Hair Tonic. Barbers 
everywhere recommend and use it. 
Why not start following their advice 
today? Two sizes of shaker-top bottles. 


BE SURE YOU GET THE 
GENUINE. Look for the 
trademark VASELINE 
when you buy. If you don't 
see it you are not getting 
the genuine product of the 
Chesebrough Mfg. Co. 
Cons'd.,17 State Street, N. V. 


Vaseline HAIR TONIC 


REG. U. S. PAT. OFF. Copr. 1933 — Chesebrough Mfg. Co., Cons'd. 


107 


108 


So you couldn't wait ^til we rescued you, huh?” 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


OVERTURE: POET AND PUG 
Continued from page 95 


“You gentlemen of fortune, attend unto my 
ditty, 
A few lines I have penned upon this great 
fight: 
In the center of England the noble place is 
pitched on 
For the Valour of this Country, or America's 
delight. 
The sturdy Black doth swear 
The moment he gets there 
The planks the stage is built on, he'll make 
them blaze and smoke. 
Then Crib, with smiling face, 
Says, ‘These boards I'll Mer disgrace, 
They're relations of mine; they are old English 
оак?” 


Those lines are more truth than poetry. But 
they show, at least, that à man who made his 
living by his fists could string words together with 
an interventional rhyme occasionally. 

Ward, who won the championship in 1825, was 
one of the cultured men of his time. He was a 
clever musician, playing the violin and the flute, 
as well as having a pleasant and cultivated singing 
voice. But he was most interested in painting. He 
had several exhibitions of his work, in London and 
in Liverpool, and Henry Stacey Marks, of the 
Royal Academy, said that he could do all Turner 
could in colors and atmosphere. 

Everyone knows that certain of the Romantic 
poets were interested in athletics. That was part 
of their creed. And aside from a general philosophic 
interest in fisticuffs, there were two poets who ad- 
vocated and practised them. I have already men- 
tioned Byron's impromptu and friendly workouts 
with “Gentleman” Jackson. Keats, on the other 


hand, was what one might call a serious fighter. 
On the same day that he wrote the Ёге of Saint 
Agnes he beat à butcher’s boy in a street fight 
over a cat that the ruffian was tormenting. And 
Shelley, in numerous muddy and bloody episodes 
at Eton, was not unhandy with his fists, slight and 
slender though he was. 

Poets have written about fighting from Homer 
to Masefield. Songs have helped men to fight; 
fighting has given men a thing to sing about. The 
relationship is as primitive as the battle-cry; it is 
as modern as The Everlasting Mercy. It has always 
been, and it will go on forever, as long as men have 
wars, singly or in groups. There is something about 
a lash with the fist that makes a man want to call 
out in exultation, and to make a song; there is 
something about physical prowess that makes it 
ripe material for the song-makers. 

In my personal experience, I have found authors 
eager to talk to me about literature. They have 
never tried to patronize me because I am a prize- 
fighter; I have never tried to patronize them be- 
cause they are writers. They have regarded me as 
though I were a craftsman with a separate but 
somehow overlapping material. William Lyon 
Phelps, professor at Yale, author and critic, has 
taken time to talk to me about shoes and ships 
and sealing wax, Shakespeare and cabbages and 
kings. I have walked and talked with Thornton 
Wilder, that most unathletie of authors, and have 
met him on the common ground of a love of litera- 
ture. I have dined and wined with Charles Hanson 
Towne, convivial poet and writer of belles lettres. 
I have heard Joseph Auslander read his beloved 
Keats and Shelley, and his own poems in manu- 
script. And my friendship with these men, whole- 
hearted as it is, has proved to me that a poet and 
a pugilist are not so different after all; that there 
are meeting-places where they can find themselves 
on the same footing, so to speak, and can talk 
together and in so talking, add something to each 
other's lives. 


THE LOST ART OF ORDERING 
Continued from page 16 


to some bachelor's rooms, after, say, an evening at 
Weberand Field's Music Hall, where there would be 
sure to bea chafing-dish supper, with a keg of beerin 
thecorner, and the flaky Welsh rarebit being stirred 
toits moment of perfection by the deft host, proud 
of his culinary skill. Then some girl would sing a 
German love-song, and we would wander home 
through the gray streets, to dream of castles in 
Spain, or more likely have strange nightmares, in 
which we were drifting out to sea on golden rafts. 

Mostly, it was innocent, and sweet, and wonder- 
ful But now, with gin and whiskey in the fore- 
ground, and the old simplicities tossed to the back- 
ground, it is coarse and crude and —yes— vulgar. 
For who can order a dinner, if it is to be sur- 


Three point two beer accompanies such an out- 
landish meal, or, worse yet, a bottle of so-called 
Burgundy, made last week in Hoboken. Then it's 
off to the talkies, and they wonder why the star 


ESQUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


rounded by highballs and gin-fizzes. And who cares 
what one eats, if it is preceded by six cocktail 
Our taste is gone, our values have been destroyed ; 
and it will take a generation to get them back 
again. 

ie lle as well as Bacchus, must laugh in his 
sleeve at America under the Eighteenth Amend- 
ment; for how he must hate to hear a youth of 
today, half seas over, saying to his lady, “The 
regular fare is good enough in this speakeasy, 
Dotty." And they begin with fruit cocktails, 
scarcely touch a minute steak, and are satisfied 
with salad served on tiny side-plates, boarding- 
house fashion, and end with a sweet in a tall goblet, 
crowned with whipped cream and a red cherry! 


looks so dizzy to them. 

We'll come back to our senses—oh, yes. But 
how long willit take us to learn the things we used 
to know so well? 


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109 


STONEWALL AND IVY 
Continued from page 92 

Ivy’ll be put on, and I want to see it's the real 
curtains. 

As I got the story from the boys later, Stonewall 
tore into Ivy's parlor about nine o'clock while they 
was all sitting around the piano singing “‘Old Jeff, 
My Heart Abides With Thee." He strides right 
past everybody up to the piano stool. 

“Better get your things on, Ivy," he says coolly. 
We've got some things to talk over. Your friends 
will excuse you." 

“Why Stonewall!” Ivy gasps, but she's out in 
the hall before any of the boys can lift a hand. 
Anyway, Corny said, they was all sitting on 'em. 

Well I'd mapped it right, because they come 
straight from her house to the Pit, which is the 
only privacy on the campus. You could hear Ivy 
asking questions a block away, but Stonewall don't 
say а word until they get inside the Pit and sit 
down. At least Ivy sits down. Stonewall jumps 
right up and starts in to pace back and forth in 
front of her. 

“So I've been the only one, eh?" and Stonewall 
laughs like a piece of canvas being ripped. “Your 
Ideal after all these years? And by the way, how 
many years you been working this claim? From 
what I hear you must have moved in right after 
the war. Maybe you palled along with Grant and 
Robert E. Lee? . . . You never were here in the 
Petting Pit with anybody else. Oh no! And I'm 
the first that awakened you, whatever that is. O 
yeah? .. . I can take a lot, Ivy, but I just can't 
stand being lied to!“ 

Maybe Ivy's figuring the jig's up or she's won- 
dering just how much Stonewall's found out, 
because at first she don't answer at all. Then when 
he starts in again at the beginning Ivy cuts him 
short with a slap on the jaw that sounds like a 
pistol shot. She throws back her head and laughs 
until both me and Stonewall is staring at her, 
scared stiff. 

“О you poor big ape!" she cries, turning on him. 
“You great dumb ox you! I just thank heavens 
my eyes are opened in time." She backs off and 
takes a better look at him. “You call yourself a 
man! Why, what do you know of Life, of the 
World? Nothing! But put this in your pipe—I 
know where there is a man!" 

With that she stomps off in the general direction 
of Higgins’ Hill, and I remembers later that’s 
where her friend little Doc Mateos hangs out. I’m 
so weak from all that’s happened I can’t hardly 
stand, and I sit right down in a elderberry bush. 
I planned a lot of plays in my time but I never had 
one work so complete as this. When you can shake 
your runner out into a clear field you've done 
about all you can. From there on it's up to him. 

I guess the rest is history by now. By the end 
of this season Stonewall's cleats will of made high- 
ways on fields from New Haven, Conn. to Athens, 
Ga. What if they do say I got just а one-man 
team? Do they know how near I come to having 
none at all? 

O yes. Somebody down at the poolroom told 
me recently that Ivy's persuaded her husband to 
go back to Spain. I understand they don't have 
no football there at all. Only bull fights. 


AUGUST AFTERNOON 
Continued from page 89 

Vic cursed him. 

“I don't want to get messed up with a heap of 
irouble and maybe get my belly slit open with that 
big hairy knife. If you ain't got objections, I reckon 
ГЇЇ mosey on home now and cut a little firewood 
for the cook-stove.” 

“Come back here!" Vie said. “You stay where 
you are and stop making moves to go off.” 

“What are we aiming to do, Mr. Vic?" 

Vic eased himself off the porch and walked across 
the yard to the water oak. He looked down at the 

round where Floyd had been sitting, and then he 
Tod at the porch steps where Willie had been. 
The noonday heat beat down through the thin 
leaves overhead and he could feel his mouth and 
throat burn with the hot air he breathed. 

“Have you got a gun, Hubert?" 

“No, sir, boss," Hubert said. 

“Why haven't you?” he said. “Right when I 
need a gun, you haven’t got it. Why don’t you 
keep a gun?" 

“Mr. Vic, I aint got no use for a gun. I used to 
keep one to shoot rabbits and squirrels with, but I 
got to thinking one day, and I traded it off the first. 
chance I had. I reckon it was a good thing I traded, 
too. If I had kept it, you'd be asking for it like you 
did just now.” 

Vie went back to the porch and picked up the 
steelyard and hammered the porch with it. After 
he had hit the porch four or five times, he dropped 
it and started out in the direction of the spring. He 
walked as far as the edge of the shade and stopped. 
He stood listening for a while. 

Willie and Floyd could be heard down near the 
spring. Floyd said something to Willie, and Willie 


110 


laughed loudly. There was silence for several min- 
utes, and then Willie laughed again. Vic was get- 
ting ready to turn back to the porch when he heard 
her cry out. It sounded like a scream, but it was 
not exactly that; it sounded like a shriek, but it was 
not that, either; it sounded more like someone 
laughing and crying simultaneously in a high- 
pitched voice. 

“Where did Miss Willie come from, Mr. Vic?” 
Hubert asked. Where did you bring her from?" 

“Down below here a little way,” he said. 

Hubert listened to the sounds that were coming 
from the pine grove. 

“Boss,” he said after a while, “it appears to me 
like you didn’t go far enough away." 

“Т went far enough,” Vic said. “If I had gone any 
farther, I’d have been in Florida.” 

The colored man hunched his shoulders forward 
several times while he smoothed the white sand 
with his broad-soled shoes. 

“Mr. Vic, if I was you, the next time I’d surely 
go that far.” 

What do you mean, the next time?“ 

“T was figuring that maybe you wouldn’t be 
keeping her much longer than now, Mr. Vic.” 

Vie cursed him. 

Hubert raised his head several times and at- 
tempted to see down into the pine grove over the 
top of the growing cotton. 

“Shut up and mind your own business,” Vic 
said. “I’m going to keep her till the cows come 
home. Where else do you reckon I'd find a better- 
looking girl than Willie?" 

“Boss, I wasn't thinking of how she looks—I was 
thinking how she acts." 

“She acts that way now because she’s not old 
enough to do different. She won’t act that way 
much longer. She’ll get over the way she’s doing 
pretty soon.” 

Hubert followed Vic across the yard. While Vic 
went towards the porch, Hubert stopped and leaned 
against the water oak where he could almost see 
over the cotton field into the pine grove. Vic went 
up on the porch and stretched out on the quilt. He 
took off his shoes and flung them aside. 

“T surely God knowed something was going to 
happen when he whittled that stick down to noth- 
ing," Hubert was saying to himself. White-folks 
take a long time to whittle a little piece of wood, but 
after they whittle it down to nothing, they’re going 
to be up and doing.” 

Presently Vic sat upright on the quilt. 

“Listen here, Hubert —“ 

“Yes, sir, boss." 

“You keep your eye on that stilyerd so it will 
stay right where it is now, and when they come 
back up the path from the spring, you wake me 
up ina hurry. Do you hear?" 

“Yes, sir, boss," Hubert said. “Аге you aiming to 
take a little nap now?” 

“Yes, Тат. And if you don’t wake me up when 
they come back, I'll break your head for you when 
I do wake up." 

Vic lay down again on the quilt and turned over 
on his side to shut out the blinding glare of the 
early afternoon sun that was reflected upon the 
porch from the hard white sand in the yard. 

Hubert scratched his head and sat down against 
the water oak facing the path from the spring. He 
could hear Vie snoring on the porch above the 
sounds that came at intervals from the pine grove 
across the field. He sat staring down the path, 
singing under his breath. It was a long time until 
sundown. 


I AM DYING. LITTLE EGYPT 


Continued from page 40 


This dull teasing occupied two-thirds of the time of 
a burlesque show and, obviously, when nakedness 
ceased to stir comment, because it was familiar in 
the more respectable shows, it was all dead weight. 
What kept burlesque alive so long, in spite of this 
stupidity, was a genuine comic spirit. In burlesque 
occurred comic types: the stage Jew, the stage 
Irishman, the stage Dutchman“, the shrewish 
wife, the drunken judge, the corrupt policeman— 
characters as old as Aristophanes and as young as 
next week'sissue of The New Yorker. You met these 
characters in other places: the characters in Abie's 
Trish Rose were from burlesque; Happy Hooligan 
was the stage tramp (and so was Joe Jackson, the 
miraculous trick cyclist); and the rich old dowager 
ogling a young man turned up again in The Cradle 
Snatchers. I mention these re-appearances to indi- 
cate the vitality of these types—and it is no wonder 
because if you wanted to look backward, instead of 
forward, you would find them in the great classic 
comedies; in Moliere and Shakespeare and in the 
great comedies of the Italians. 

These comedians did little acts which were famil- 
iar enough, but funny. They were called “bits” and 
a bit could run anywhere from a drunken stagger 
(like Leon Errol’s) to a whole scene, like the travel- 
ing salesman's departure from his loving wife, ar- 
rival of the lover, and return of the husband. Or 
you might get Clark and MeCullough's lion act or 
James Barton's drunk. The audience expected these 


things exactly as audiences in Symphony Halls 
throughout the country expect John McCormack 
to sing Mother Machree—and enjoyed them just 
as much. All of these comedians were masters of 
makeup and gesture, and the reason they could be 
dirty—and they were—is that when the character 
was established as a grotesque and unreal one, the 
dirt did not matter too much—as if smoking room 
stories were told about men from Mars. These com- 
edians, to be sure, always graduated into vaudeville 
or musical shows if they were talented; but they are 
essentially part of burlesque and are the contribu- 
tion of burlesque to the higher-class stage, keeping 
our vaudeville and musicals from becoming too re- 
fined, too clean, and too dull. No one in the legiti- 
mate theatre ever dares to do what the burlesque 
theatre always did; create extravagant types. The 
characters of burlesque were dull to the point of 
idiocy, cruel to the point of sadism, amorous to the 
point of nymphomania—and so for all the common 
human emotions. In comparison with them, our 
legitimate stage is thin-blooded and frightened and 
feeble. That is one of the reasons the death of bur- 
lesque is a misfortune. 


Another, over which I shed few tears myself, is 
the virtual disappearance of the fat lady. The dif- 
ference between The Black Crook and the final 
Ziegfeld Follies сап be measured in tons as well as 
taste. When Mr. Ziegfeld decided that he wanted 
them stately, Mr. Carroll that he wanted them pert, 
and all the producers together that they wanted 
them thin, the fat lady and with her the shapely 
bust of the Mae West type and the beautiful legs 
of the Frankie Bailey type, all vanished, except in 
burlesque. A few years ago a New York cabaret, 
exploiting some local row about the dying embers 
of burlesque, announced a minimum weight of 200 
pounds for its chorus girls; but nothing came of it. 
Until fashions change again, the fat lady retires to 
radio and the plump chorus girl kicks her heels in 
the theatrical agent's waiting room. 

The mention of this cabaret recalls to me the 
dangerous cireumstance that I have not proved my 
first assertion, that Prohibition is in some way re- 
sponsible for the decline and fall of burlesque. The 
argument is simple: burlesque corresponded in tone 
with the Saturday night toot, the great weekly orgy 
of the American workingman. Came the deceptive 
dawn of prohibition, and men began to drink when- 
ever they could; the exclusively male ceremony of a 
weekly night on the town was broken into bits and 
as we reassembled them, we discovered that we had 
new drinking companions; the girls, God forbid! 
With the sublime hypocrisy which no male ever 
understood, the girls thumbed down the saloon, but 
were eleventh day camels when it came to drinking 
somewhere else; and they wouldn’t be seen in a 
burlesque house, but their noses quivered with de- 
lighted anticipation if the same effects were pro- 
duced in theatres which were socially correct. In 
short, when prohibition taught women to drink and 
made escape from them impossible, men had to 
bringinto thelegitimate theatre the elements which 
had once been male and malodorous. (There were a 
few contributing causes; that ole debbil, the War, 
the breakdown of morals, and all the other favorite 
topics of the Sunday supplement moralists.) Pro- 
hibition created a new chumminess between men 
and women, even their wives; the men resented it 
a little, because they are wayward and like to get 
away by themselves; but they gave in; and they 
sacrificed burlesque in their surrender. The only 
place left to the masculine gender is the pool-room, 
and that is in jeopardy because there is usually a 
bowling alley attached and women are taking up 
bowling. 

The fundamental business of burlesque was not 
to amuse, but to stir the sexual appetite of a male 
audience. With hundreds of women around, instead 
of a scattering of tarts, the job became too difficult; 
there was, for instance, the problem of giving at 
least a thrill to the ladies and no red-nosed come- 
dian with a crepe beard could do that. In good bur- 
lesque, the comic elements were carefully spaced 
out, because comedy is like a dash of cold water on 
the manly fire. But when men and women are to- 
gether, and the gratification of the lust of the eye is 
about all you are offering, there is room for more 
and better comedy. Fatally, a little of the intellect 
arrives—and burlesque is done for. When instead 
of answering, “that was no lady, that was my wife,” 
the comedian says “that wasn’t a street, that was 
an alley,” you see the operations of the mind of an 
Einstein, a Shaw, a Eugene O’ Neill and the animal 
satisfaction of the pure leg show is doomed. 

About seventy-five per cent of the best come- 
dians on our popular stage came out of burlesque, 
including our one woman comedian of genius, 
Fannie Brice. By absorbing burlesque, the musical 
stage saved itself from becoming mincing and polite 
and damnably intellectual. We are getting our dirt 
practically everywhere, and do not need burlesque 
so much; but no one has yet discovered where the 
next batch of great comedians and dancers is 
coming from, and no institution has yet risen to 
be such a school of wild grotesque comedy as 
burlesque used to. be. 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


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ES QUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


*No-o, Mr. O’Halloran only answers four-alarms”’ 


111 


ITH the one exception that is re- 

ceiving the attention of the doua- 
nier, everything on this page passes 
muster, in the eustom of the times, for 
inclusion in the wardrobe of every well- 
dressed man. In the top row, reading 
northeast from the skis, are patent 
leather French pumps, designed for the 
somewhat effetely specifie purpose of 
being worn at home with dinner 
clothes (but they feel just as good with a 
lounge suit or dressing gown); a pair of 
Norwegian ski boots, of the square toed 
hooked top kind worn by experienced 
ski jumpers; and practical, very еот- 
fortable, hard soled slippers of python 
skin. In the middle row, the brown 
wing tip shoe for informal town wear; 
the black town shoe with straight per- 
forated tip, for slightly more dressed 
up" usage; and the properly propor- 
tioned patent leather oxfords for eve- 


112 


ning wear. The bottom row; Norwegian 
ealf brogues with blucher front, in the 
dark shade of briar brown that polishes 
to a reddish near-black; the correctly 
proportioned patent leather pumps for 
formal evening wear—that is, for wear 
with the taileoat. The Norwegian calf 
brogues are really a sports and country 
item, but you ean get by with them in 
town when your clothes are of the soft 
rough textured fabries that have lately 
come into the town and business ward- 
robe. As for the gloves, the following are 
enough to get by on, though there's 
nothing to keep you from having more: 
a pair of natural chamois for town and 
business; Scotch knitted gloves for the 
eountry; Norwegian knitted mittens for 
winter sports; white glacé for formal wear; 
white buckskin for business and informal 
evening wear; and a pair of buff pigskin 
gauntlets for general knock-about use. 


FOOTWEAR AND 


GLOVES IN THE 


CUSTOM MANNER 


ESQUIRE—Autumn, 1933 


POOR MAN'S NIGHT CLUB 


Continued from page 107 

tion at а time when the other contestants have 
either one fall or no falls at all, giving the crowd a 
protracted ecstasy of apprehension as to their 
chances of survival. Later on in the contest, you 
will see those same couples go through twenty-four 
grinds, where two falls in twenty-four hours will 
mean elimination from the contest, with only one 
fall—but that one taken early in the twenty-four 
hour stretch. 

But these are the couples you like to watch. 
Every contest has its “Iron Man" and “Iron 
Woman," the stolid, efficient conservers of energy, 
who indulge in no crowd-baiting antics. They sel- 
dom take in any appreciable sums, in the modified 
beggary that is the contestant’s only source of 
revenue, they never place high in the popularity 
contests, and curiously enough, they are almost 
never in at the finish. 

Then there are the partner-killers, the spoilers. 
There are more of them among the boys than the 
girls. They will sag on their partners, who must do 
all the work, dragging them around the floor, until 
finally exhausted. Then, after a brief period as 
solos, they get new partners whom they wear out in 
the same way. This type of contestant is a good bet 
to win. Some of them have come through to the 
end, to great acclaim, and have been hailed for 
“out-lasting” from five to eight partners, in the 
course of the entire contest, when “wearing out" 
those partners would be a more accurate way to 
describe the phenomenon of their survival. 


"These are only a few of the many angles. Maybe 
you are stretching the meaning of the word sport, 
to include a Walkathon, but it is like baseball or 

football, in that it looks simple but is replete with 
inside stuff that escapes the casual and only occa- 
sional onlooker. 

One thing is certain, and that is that it is not 
half as agonizing for the contestants as it looks. 
Being eliminated from a Walkathon, after sagging 
about for hours and days as a terrible sight to con- 
template, is like being knocked out in the ring. 
It looks like a sample taste of death, but, in all but 
а few very rare instances, recovery is a matter of 
minutes rather than days. 

To watch a contest, you could imagine that 
there is à Walkathon walk, as lasting and distinc- 
tive as the conviet walk is supposed to be. You 
would imagine that the contestant, for months 
afterward, would be а nervous wreck, springing 
awake, after each ten or fifteen minutes of sleep, 
at the sound of imaginary sirens, the sirens that 
call the kids back to the floor after each rest period. 
And if you were to talk to some of the contestants, 
they might cannily confirm your worst imaginings. 
But kidding the publie in their floor-side conversa- 
tion is a large part of what little fun they get. 

The plain fact is that you and I and the other 
guy could do a lot worse—and probably do—for 
our health, our morals, our habits of thrift, than 
to join up in the next Walkathon. It's two to one 
that you aren't getting as much sleep, in your one 
session per day, as those kids get in their twenty- 
four, that you are not eating as regularly or as 
sensibly, in your three meals, as they are in their 
seven, and even, perhaps, that you are not saving 
as much money, on whatever you make per week, 
as they are on their slender revenues derived from 
the sale of popcorn on one night per week and of 
autographed pictures on the other six. You have 
countless opportunities to fritter away your money, 
and they have none. Pitifully small as their earn- 
ings may be (and lately they've been very little— 
once they ran fairly high, as much as two hundred 
a week for the more popular contestants) they 
have no way to spend a dime of them, so it's that 
much to the good. 

So who, to revive a question that once ran round 
the world, is loony now? 


'The whole thing juts with angles, but even 
though you know them all, and can tell in an in- 
stant just what's fake and what isn't, when you 
walk in in the middle of one of those grinds and 
you don't really give а damn who wins and who 
loses, you can't remember that, somehow, when 
the fever surges up through the crowd and you find 
yourself standing up and yelling brotherly advice 
to some blank-featured youth with a sick sinking 
grin on his face and a glassy glaze over his eyes 
and how relieved you are when he finally snaps 
out of it and straightens up and goes over for the 
ice towel to revive himself and it isn’t a fall and 
you knew of course that it wouldn't be because 
you've seen him go through all that before and 
anyway it’s all phoney but if you knew that all the 
time what did you go crazy for and stand up there 
yelling like a loon and you don’t know and you feel 
foolish and anyway you never will again but you 
do the next night or at any rate within the week 
and if you do then you've got it and nothing can 
change you and that's the Walkathon. 


ESQUI RE E— Autumn, 1933 


Well, friends, 


you might as well 
join the stampede 


у 1 * ST take a look at this red, white and 
^ Pm. blue package I'm holdin' here and let 

У me tell you something— 

ё This is the fastest-sellin’ shaving cream 

on the market, bar none. 

Now, I'm not sayin' that by way o' boast- 
ing, but just as a hint that maybe you're missin' something good if 
you don't join the parade. 

Ever since Barbasol came out with the idea that it was smarter to 
shave with a soothin', healin' cream that you just rub on and shave 
off, folks have been chucking their old friend the shaving brush and 
flocking to Barbasol. 

And now, maybe you've noticed, even the dyed-in-the-wool brush 
and lather boys are singin' our tune. Yessir, they're in the brushless 
cream business too, and that just about makes the stampede complete. 

We're mighty happy they agree with us, because it's the best proof 
you could ask that a brushless cream is the right kind of shave. 

So let's pass right on to the biggest question, and that is—what's 
the best cream to use? 

Well, that's easy. Barbasol. It’s so kind and gentle to the skin 
that a whole passel of smart folks even use it for sunburn. 

Considerin' all this, it seems sensible-like that yoz ought to be 
shaving with Barbasol and if you'll take a suggestion from your old 
friend, Sam, you'll step into the nearest drug store and get a tube of 
this famous cream that makes shavin' one of the big moments of 
the day. 


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113 


Smith, you always go too far” 


ESOUIRE— Autumn, 1933 


114 


BACK HOME IN 1919 
Continued from page 107 


on and his German field glasses hung over his 
shoulder. His blue eyes were shining. Do you see 
the Statute of Liberty yet Charley?" 

"No... yes, there she is. I remembered her 
lookin' bigger." 

“There’s Black Tom where the explosion was." 

“Things look pretty quiet, Joe." 

“Tt’s Sunday that’s why.” 

“Tt would be Sunday.” 

They were opposite the Battery now. The long 
spans of the bridges to Brooklyn went off into 
smoky shadow behind the pale skyscrapers. 

“Well Charley, that’s where they keep all the 
money. We got to get some of it away from ’em.” 
said Joe Askew, tugging at his moustache. 

Wish I knew how to start in, Joe.” 

They were skirting a long row of roofed slips. Joe 
held out his hand. “Well Charley; write to me, kid, 
do you hear . . . It was a great war while it lasted.” 

“T sure will, Joe.” 

Two tugs were shoving the Niagara around into 
the slip against the strong ebb tide. American and 
French flags flew over the wharf building, in the 
dark doorways were groups of people waving. 
“There’s my wife," said Joe Askew suddenly. He 
squeezed Charley's hand; “бо long kid. We're 
home." 

First thing Charley knew, too soon, he was walk- 
ing down the gangplank. The transport officer 
barely looked at his papers, the customs man said, 
“Well I guess it's good to be home, Lieutenant," 
as he put the stamps on hisgrip. He got past the Y 
man and the two reporters and the member of the 
mayor's committee; the few people and the scat- 
tered trunks looked lost RE lonely in the huge 
yellow gloom of the wharf building. Major Taylor 
and the Johnsons shook hands like strangers. 

Then he was following his small khaki trunk to a 
taxicab. The Johnsons already had a cab and were 
waiting for a stray grip. Charley went over to 
them. He couldn't think of anything to say. Paul 
said he must be sure to come to see them if he 
stayed in New York, but he kept standing in the 
door of the cab, so that 16 was hard for Charley to 
talk to Eveline. He could see the muscles relax on 
Paul's face when the porter brought the lost grip. 
“Be sure and look us up,” he said, and jumped in 
and slammed the door. 

Charley went back to his cab, carrying with him 
a last glimpse of long hazel eyes and her teasing 
smile. Do you know if they still give officers spe- 
cial rates at the McAlpin?" he asked the taximan. 

“Sure they treat you all right if you're an officer 
. . . If you're an enlisted man you get your can 
kicked" answered the taximan out of the corner of 
his mouth and slammed on the gears. 

The taxi turned into a wide empty stone-paved 
street. The cab rode easier than Paris cabs. The big 
warehouses and market buildings were all closed 
up. “Gee things look pretty quiet here," Charley 
said, leaning forward to talk to the taximan through 
the window. 

“Quiet as hell . . . You wait till you start to look 
for a job," said the taximan. 

“But Jesus I don't ever remember things bein’ 
as quiet as this.” | 

„Well why shouldn't they be quiet . . . It’s Sun- 
day ain’t it.” 

“Oh sure I’d forgotten it was Sunday.” 

“Sure it’s Sunday." 

“I remember now it's Sunday.“ 


THE ART IN PUTTING 
Continued from page 63 


The photograph reveals some daylight between 
the left elbow and side. Whenever I begin to notice 
2 tendency to pull my putts, and feel a tightening 
in the left wrist as I hit the ball, I turn this left 
elbow even farther out until at times it is pointing 
almost directly toward the hole. This overcomes to 
a great extent the locking tendency, and encour- 
ages again a stroke along the proper line. 


Ample Backswing Many players run into trou- 
Reassuring ble on the greens because 
they are afraid to trust a 
backswing which is long enough to allow a smooth 
stroke without hurry or effort. The inclination is 
very strong, particularly when trying to hole a 
difficult six-footer, to figure that the shortest pos- 
sible backswing runs the least danger of turning 
the club away from the proper setting. In my own 
case, at least, this has been utterly disproved. I 
find that my troubles only multiply when I shorten 
my backswing—that then I begin to jab, stab, and 
cut, and that very soon any semblance of touch has 
vanished. An ample backswing, leisurely and free, 
not only makes my putting stroke mechanically 
better, but it serves also to keep me in a much 
better state of mind, where I am able to concen- | 
trate upon hitting the ball correctly instead of | 
worrying about irregularities and hidden rolls in 


the green. 


ESQUIR E— Autumn, 1933 


TRICK MEN LEARN IN PARIS 


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SHAVING LOTION — pronounced Foo- 


zhaire Royal — meaning “Royal Fern”. 


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smiling because of Fougere Royale 
After Shaving Lotion. For it's a cock- 
tail for the face—a semi-miraculous 
pick-me-up after the shave... cooling 
to the skin, soothing to the spirit, and 
healing to the nicks and scratches of 
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Best of all, Houbigant has given it 


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Price 75@ at fine stores everywhere. 
Or in sets at $1.10 and up, together 
with the wonderfully fine Fougere 
Royale Shaving Cream, skin-toned 
After-Shave Powder, and other mascu- 


line luxuries by Houbigant. 


LUXURIES ARE PRICED $I.IO, $2 AND UP. 


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к O U G E R E 


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Shaving Luxuries 


115 


BACKSTAGE WITH 
ESQUIRE 
Continued from page 7 


serious consideration. He put Aristo- 
phanes over on Broadway with his 
translation of Lysistrata. He writes 
a daily column in the Hearst papers. 


Charles Hanson Towneis equally 
well known as poet and bon vivant. 
He was at one time the editor of 
Harper's Bazaar. 


Morley Callaghan is one of the 
charter members of the so-called 
tough baby school of fiction. He is a 
Canadian who was encouraged to 
write by Ernest Hemingway during 
the latter's days as a Canadian corre- 
spondent. His first stories were pub- 
lished in the little“ magazines printed 
in Paris before the depression. 


Dashiell Hammett is the man 
who brought blood and thunder into 
the best drawing rooms. Probably his 
best known book is The Maltese Fal- 
con. His newest is The Thin Man. 


Erskine-Caldwell is а Southerner 
who now lives in Maine. He has won 
considerable critical acclaim by his 
novels, T'obacco Road and God's Little 
Acre, and his first book of short stories, 
American Earth. His newest book is 
We Are The Living, a collection of 
short stories. 


Davi» HoanLEY MUNROE 


David Hoadley Munroe is the 
author of The Grand National, an 
authoritative book on this most im- 
portant of steeplechase events. 


Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. is the 
movie star. He made a movie at the 
tender age of sixteen called, if we re- 
member correctly, Stephen Steps Out. 
Were it not for that, we could say that 
writing, rather than acting, was his first 
love. At any rate, he has been writing 
for a long time. At the risk of being 
insulting we will enter here the denial 
that his story is ghost written. He 
knows he wrote it himself, but the 
fact that he is a movie actor makes us 
feel that it is necessary to see to it 
that you know it. Mr. Fairbanks is 
in London at this writing, and is 
working on an article for the next 
issue of Esquire, concerned in the 
main with the phenomenon that the 
movies, meticulous in so many details, 
pay shockingly little attention to the 
correctness of the attire of male movie 
stars. 


Vincent Starrett is one of the few 
Chicagoans whose fame dates from 
the era when Chicago was considered 
a literary center who has resisted the 


116 


urge to move on to New York. He is 
the most literate of the detective 
story writers, and is also well known 
as a bibliophile. He has written 
numerous mystery stories, and several 
books on book collecting. His best 
book, one that never received a tenth 
of the attention it deserved, is Sea- 
ports of the Moon. It is not a mys- 
tery. His new book, announced for 
October publication, is The Private 
Life of Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Starrett 
has been a Holmes enthusiast for 
twenty years and has one of the larg- 
est collections of Holmes material in 
this country. 


AUDREY WURDEMANN 


Audrey Wurdemann hails from 
Seattle, Washington, dividing her 
time about cqually between there and 
New York. She has appeared in some 
of the better magazines. She was a 
protegée of the late George Sterling 
and is a direct descendant—a great- 
granddaughter we think it is, al- 
though the statement came to us after 
the manner of a legend and if we are 
wrong about the exact relationship 
we would be pleased to have you sue 
us—of the great English poet Shelley. 
Esquire is supposed to be a magazine 
by, of and for men only, but Miss 
Wurdemann is the exception required 
to prove the rule that we feature only 
male contributors. And, anyway, did 
you ever read more virile, masculine- 
sounding verse than The Lease of 
Lust, in this issue? If you haven't 
read it, and if you are one of those 
who "never read poetry" then we 
especially recommend it to you. 


Nicholas Murray Butleris the fa- 
mous educator and long-time advo- 
cate of repeal. He is the president of 
Columbia University. His article was 
dictated to S. J. Woolf, whose splen- 
did interviews are familiar to all read- 
ers of the New York Times. 


Frederick Van Ryn was the co- 
author, with the late Grand Duke 
Alexander, of those two best sellers, 
Once А Grand Duke, and Always А 
Grand Duke. 

. 


George S. Chappell is the creator 
of the famous Traprock family, whose 
adventures were set down in hilarious 
detail in The Cruise of the Kawa and 
Mr. and Mrs. Traprock Abroad. His 
next novel, of which The Turtle of 
Mme. La Concierge will form a chap- 
ter, is to be called Shoal Water. 


Harry Hershfield is the creator of 
Abie the Agent, comic strip starring 
Abe Kabibble, long one of the most 
popular characters in the realm of 
newspaper humor. 


Geoffrey Kerr is the well-known 
actor. His humorous pieces have fre- 
quently appeared in Vanity Fair and 
Harper's Bazaar. Не will appear 


again in Esquire with A Portrait of 
a Butler. 
е 


Gene Tunney is the retired unde- 
feated heavyweight champion. We 
asked for an article on anything he 
felt like writing about, barring only 
that over-discussed business about 
the fourteen count. 


We hope you aren’t half as tired of 
this matter of ghost writing as we are. 
Whenever we run an article or story 
by someone whose fame is based on 
attainment other than literary, we 
feel called upon to tell you that it is, 
or is not, ghosted, as the case may be 
We don’t say that we will never run 
ghosted material—there’s a lot of 
good stuff that can be obtained no 
other way—but we do say, here, now, 
once and for all, that ghosted articles 
will always be identified, as such. 
While we’re on the subject, let’s dis- 
pose of it entirely. Benny Leonard 
wrote his story, or if he didn’t we 
wish he had. At any rate, it has lost a 
little, in print, of the charm it had 
when he told it to us at dinner in a 
place on Park Avenue. We still think 
it’s a great story, but we wish there 
were some way that this issue could be 
wired for sound, because it would be 
even better if you could hear him 


tell it. 


Controlled inflation sounded to us 
like a contradiction in terms until we 
remembered Leonard’s cold fury in 
the ring, on those few occasions when 
opponents mussed that slick and 
neatly parted hair. He would be 
playing along and pretty obviously 
taking it easy until that fatal moment 
when, by accident or design, his luck- 
less opponent chanced to muss his 
hair. Then it came, suddenly but 
without bluster—that calm, purpo- 
sive,cold—yes,controlled,fury. Cham- 
pions come and go, but if you never 
saw that there’s no use in regretting 
it. You'll never see it again. In those 
moments he was unique. 


Charley Paddock wrote his story, 
too. We know that because we got an 
outline of it from him beforehand. 
Funny thing, how involved every- 
thing is since the newspapers began 
this business of vicarious Journalism. 


Dos Passos, whois a writer, can bat 
out a drawing and you'd never think 
of questioning the fact that he did it 
himself in fact, it would seem very 
ridiculous if we gave you a solemn 
assurance that he did. Yet the minute 
asports figure breaks into print every- 
body but the veriest bumpkin is prone 
to assume, until shown otherwise, 
that a professional writer did all the 
work for a measly fraction of the 
check. 

е 


Ghost writing, which started as а 
sort of midwifery for those who could 
not otherwise deliver thoughts for 
which there was a demand, has 
strayed into strange channels. The 
pay-off, it seems to us, arrives when a 
professional writer does his own 
ghosting! Yet it was reached last 
month with the publication of а book 
in which Gertrude Stein writes the 
Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas for 
the purpose of enabling Miss Toklas 
to deliver a biography of Gertrude 
Stein. That almost calls for a diagram. 


Incidentally, Miss Toklas wonders, 
in the voice of the ventriloquist's doll, 
what has become of her Hemingway 
godehild. The obvious inference in 
this wonderment is that life itself, let 
alone cultural well-being and spiritual 
content, is threatened by removal 
from the rarefied atmosphere of the 
Stein-Toklas menage at 27 Rue de 
Fleurus. Miss Toklas is cordially re- 
ferred to page 9 where J. H. N. Hem- 
ingway, the godchild in question, is 


shown in the wholesome, and even 
literary, company of his father and а 
47 pound marlin. 


Gilbert Seehausen, whose ““СеПо- 
phane Gown" and portrait of Ring 
Lardner Jr. appear in this issue, might 
be called the “youngest veteran” 
among Chicago photographers. He is 
one of the best all round camera men 
we know, and you will see a lot of his 
work in future issues of ESQUIRE. 


Dan Muller was for a long time a 
personal assistant of the late Buffalo 
Bill Cody, touring with his show. We 
read him E. E. Cummings’ poem about 
Buffalo Bill and at the point in which 
it says that Buffalo Bill could “break 
onetwothreefourfive pigeons just like 
that" a peculiar expression came into 
his eyes and he said that sometime he 
mightliketoexplain that phenomenon 
for the benefit of the readers of 
Esquire. We hope he will, because 
it's a great story. Mr. Muller looks, 
acts, and talks like the typical cow- 
boy, and writes exactly as he speaks. 
We have given you his first recorded 
narrative, Break Em Gentle," ex- 
actly as he put it down on paper, with 
no editorial kibitzing whatsoever. Mr. 
Muller has had some acclaim as an 
artist and-has enjoyed an extremely 
localized reputation as a teller of 
tales, but he never thought of writing 
until we persuaded him to tell one of 
his stories to a typewriter, just as he 
would tellit to a group of cronies. 


Dan MULLER 


Paul Trebilcock is a well-known 
portrait painter. His camera work is 
strictly a hobby. At this writing, he is 
in Washington, doing a portrait of the 
President. 

е 


James T. Farrell, who reviews 
books in this issue, is an author 
rather than a critic, although his 
short reviews have appeared in a num- 
ber of the magazines. His books are 
Young Lonegan, Gashouse McGinty, 
and a sequel to Young Lonegan which 
is announced for publication at about 
the time this issue of EsqurRE appears. 


Sam Ostrowsky is a Russian who 
has lived in Paris off and on for 
twenty years. The time that he has 
spent away from Paris, throughout 
that period, has been divided between 
Chicago, where he has kept a home, 
and the Catskills, where he has a 
summer place. He is a painter—one 
who has long been accepted in Paris 
art circles but whose reputation in 
America has only begun to grow. His 
canvases have been exhibited by 
the Whitney Museum of Modern Art, 
in New York, and by the Art Institute 
in Chicago. 


ESQUIREC— Autumn, 1933 


TRAVEL 
WISE 


Q When you visit New York, make The 


Ambassador your home. It long has been 


Although 


we tried to make ? M к. 
the ultimate choice of discriminating 


it as masculine families. 


ас a moustache The experienced traveller knows that 


his stay will be most enjoyable because 


Ч ЖУ here, he is assured of every comfort. He 
...there's no predicting a Ё н 

з f appreciates the central location of The 
woman's taking ways. 


They've taken from man his Ambassador as it is in close proximity to 


cherished automobiles and the theatres and smart shops. 


airplanes, his cigarettes, his The excellence of the cuisine is known 
favorite knockabout hats 
à the world over. 
and peat-smelling tweeds— 


ёзен, of te including the Whether you plan to spend a week or 


pants. They may even take 
his Esquire. We've tried 
to make it unlikely— we 


a day in New York, you may be sure a 


most cordial welcome awaits you. 


Rates $5 up 


can't make it impossible. 


The only remedy we can 22 — 
suggest is а subscription 
deliverable at the office, 
and another in case they 


= AMBASSADOR 


ESQUIRE 


THE QUARTERLY FOR MEN 


Theo. Kroell, General Manager 


PARK AVENUE • 5181 to 52nd Streets NEW YORK 


ESQUIRE—Autumn. 1933 


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